The Mask's Lament
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: He had left them to a lifetime of happiness without his intervention. But when betrayal turns the tides, he is forced to seek vengeance. However, his just motives condemn the one who is innocent of the crime. Can he see her innocence before it's too late?
1. Prologue: Bittersweet Betrayal

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Prologue.

_The Paris Opéra House, France_

_January 1882_

Paris was the jewel of France. With its opulent display of beauty and architecture, its fellow European neighbours envied it. London and Madrid held no sway over the innate charm Paris freely offered—their citizens also flocked to the crowded streets of their nemesis.

With an endless foray of lavish parties, good wine, and female companionship, what man could deny himself the desire of living in such a wondrous city? Personal pleasure was far more important than loyalty to a country that offered nothing except taxes and extra fodder for the armed forces.

The Industrial World moved man from working in the fields to the factories. Farmlands were exchanged for a place in the city, and in most cases, a small place. Most worked in the underbelly of the city, striving to make ends meet, their lives cruelly placed in the working-class caste.

But despite the negative side of city life, many adored it. Those who lived in the life of luxury—the nobility—loved every moment. The city was a sphere of entertainment, gossip on fellow peers and new creations were the talk of the town. Paris was never dull, especially when an intriguing scandal spread through its circles like an addictive drug.

The usual affairs between lords and their mistresses and freshly tainted innocents ran the rumour mill. It almost became pedestrian to learn of a titled lady's fall from grace, the result being a good name highlighted with shame, and then, inexorably, disinherited.

Most young women who only had their good name protected it with their life, never allowing a man to bring scandal upon them. One could find honest work in a household of a lord, and luckily, stay out of sight from a lecherous eye. Others found employment in more questionable facilities.

The overly male-dominated public generally criticized female artists and musicians—Cassat and Curie shared this inequitable censure. A lady's place was in the home, not outside of it. In spite of this, the women who painted landscapes or hovered over a microscope were several cuts above those who preferred a life on the stage. Suffice it to say that actresses were at the bottom of the list.

It was true that most men desired to see a woman in scantily clad attire sauntering about on stage, but to marry one? Therein lay the rub. It was like condemning oneself to a nunnery, a self-damned act. But most who longed to marry well—or God willing, into a wealthy family—had a very slight chance in achieving that goal.

But times were changing, and sooner or later the prudent community of wealth would pass on, and the younger, more liberal generation would inherit everything their predecessors held dear—and inevitably change everything they worked so hard to create.

The nineteenth century was drawing to a close, and yet still held promise of a future with endless possibilities—endless possibilities for those who desired change…

…

Twelve ill-fated chimes echoed within the silent room, each strike a melodic warning of the impending arrival of midnight. It was a declaration of another lost hour; another lost moment in time, which could never be recovered or redeemed—forever lost in the perpetual sands of time.

Lost…

Time itself was nothing more than a relentless adversary that assured victory over its mortal competitors. Whether falling by the hand of a premature death or by Time's wearing touch, all were at its apathetic mercy…

Even one with a plethora of unearthly talents could not successfully persuade for an extension to his or her life. Molded genius was easily cast aside like a worn shoe, which had outlived its usefulness. In the end, all embraced the cold, resolute arms of Death. It was the only assurance that Time offered.

And as Death carefully wrapped its skeletal arms around its newest lover, it offered the promise of eternal darkness and the oblivion which followed. The dead would forever dwell in that impenetrable sheath of darkness, forgetting everything in their former lives, and residing in a world of lost thought.

It was truly a fitting end to one who deserved nothing less…

But the idea of that sweet promise was still premature. Twilight was not yet on the horizon of his life. There were still a few more minutes left to his mortal existence. After the last unwanted second passed through Time's hourglass, his reserved place in Hell would be open for him.

But Hell, it seemed, was already with him. He was in the audience of the fabled Lucifer and his multitude of fallen angels. They laughed and taunted their newest arrival, basking in the visible torment of their latest victim; their revelry proceeded by the sweet intoxication of his unending agony.

It was truly a relief compared to his life on earth. But as he conceded to the punishment of his earthly misdeeds, it was only an illusion—the disjointed thoughts of his maddened persona, brought on by a lifetime of grief.

There was no devil, no portentous mantra composed by fallen angels and demons; no physical pain…only the inexorable knowledge that he was, in truth, alone; as he would always be…even in Hell.

Reality was the darkness surrounding his pitiful form. Reality was this incessant silence, but most importantly, it was the harsh realization of living in this limbo of eternal night. The cold room was shaded with an opaque shield of darkness. The only light defying its obscurity was a solitary candle, which trembled against the cool breeze coming in from the underground lake.

All was silent within the room, silent where music once thrived. A shattered cry then replaced the melodic voice that haunted the underground passages, its dulcet tones faded and transformed into a chain of unending broken sobs. The haunting melody of sorrow seeped through the corridors and onto the gentle crest of the lake.

A slow stream of music finally accompanied the sorrowful lament from a broken organ. Its distressed sound echoed throughout the underground passageways, but fell upon deaf ears. No one would be able to hear the expression of grief, for no one was there.

Long white fingers fell against the ivory keys, their agility proving that of an experienced pianist. They moved nimbly over the keys, their quiet strikes against them creating a beautiful piece fit for a royal elegy.

Tears fell against the keys as the composition reached its climax, the emotion behind it galling its creator. But wordlessly, the fingers did not stop their constant movement against the delicate ivory keys. Instead, they pressed on, desiring to reach the sonata's end—no matter the consequence.

More tears fell when the last notes played out into the darkness. A soft cry was heard, the fingers stopping their movement as their master pulled away from the organ. No more music would be heard that night.

It was the same every night: An endless sequence of cries followed by an evocative piece of music, which brought a sense life to the silent passages, albeit poignant and overcast with despair.

Amber eyes, filled with anguish, stared at the broken instrument. Although damaged, the organ still functioned to fit its purpose—his purpose. But what purpose was that, to play lamentations for an empty audience? Who was he trying to deceive? There was no one here to deceive. No one to torment, manipulate with his dark designs. He was in a hell of his own making, and no one would accompany him in his personal misery, misery which had begun the moment he drew his first breath—agony, which started the moment his mother viewed his monstrous face.

He refused to reminisce upon the past—a past, which no longer existed. It had departed his company like everything else in his life. His naïve beliefs in normalcy were shattered. He was a fool to believe that he could be like everybody else, live an ordinary life; have the things a normal man would have…obtain a requited love.

But it was not meant to be. He would forever suffer because of his face, something he could never conceal. True, he could by artificial means, but never permanently. He would never overcome his private battle against fate and gain what he desired most.

His mother was right: He would never escape what he was—a monster. His soul was maladjusted and twisted by years of perversion, mottled by the sins of others. And so, he was cursed by a cruel god to wear a mask of ugliness, one in which he could never remove.

Oh, how his mother haunted him even now. Escape from this pitiful existence would only end in his death.

But where his condemned existence held him in bondage, he could still defy the fates and curse the traitorous stars. Throughout the years, he had tormented those who stood in his way. By gaining awe and fear by those foolish enough to look upon his deformity, he acquired a certain assurance—people feared him. And for those who considered themselves powerful, they could use fear to gain favour among the race of man.

Had he not intimidated Persia's royal family? Had he not struck fear into the heart of a shah? Terrorizing an opéra house was the least of his cruel machinations. Nobility was easy to frighten, especially when they hid behind those powerless to protect them.

For years, he had observed the world and its cruel justifications, which had concealed itself behind a pretense of righteousness. He watched as countries tore themselves apart for impartial reasons; mostly over land or liberty, all of which were honourable to the public eye.

Heroes were made out of those who spilled the blood of their enemies, their praises heralded by the witless. Most were nothing more than murderers seeking fame and fortune. They were ignorant in their ideologies—which were nothing more than monsters parading throughout society in masks of virtue and morality. Their integrity tainted the ground on which they walked upon.

For they were no better…

At least he could accept the truth of his malevolent nature, and embrace the villain from within. Most did not comprehend that they were evil, let alone conscious of their malicious cruelty. A fool could damn himself to Hell without even realizing it.

But he realized it; he was already in Hell. Although he could not feel the fiery flames of torment, he could still experience the torture, be subjected to the cruel reality of knowing there would be no end to his sentence; his cell being this dark room with no one but himself to amuse.

In spite of this truth, there had once been a ray of sunlight that penetrated his dark cell. Oh, yes, there was a small perforation that allowed the sunlight to invoke everything within its path. Sunlight, which warmed his cold, dead flesh, allowed him to dream, to believe.

The sunlight was the embodiment of a child, a child shy of being a score old. She had the face of an angel; her beautiful wavy hair the colour of dark sepia. Her eyes were a deep azure, like the cool depths of the temperate sea. She was beautiful where he was ugly; light where he was dark.

Oh, how he loved her, loved her before she was recognized by the rest of the world, loved her for her poor, humble background—loved her even without her angelic voice, which he helped mold to perfection.

She was his masterpiece, his _magnum opus_. _Don Juan Triumphant _was a rough outline compared to the grace and beauty of Christine Daaé. He made her what she was, and yet she left him without gratitude. But what more could he expect? He was a monster in her eyes. He had to carefully construct a façade, which compelled her to believe that he was the angel her father had sent.

His deception had worked well, and he sculpted her shy voice into that of a glorious soprano. She would be the next prima donna of the Paris Opéra. Perhaps even be the most sought after voice to perform in other European opéra houses.

Christine Daaé was fated to be heard, meant to grace the world with her divine presence. She, the shy little dancer girl whose voice did not go above a whisper would become the lead soloist, and he, would be her mentor.

She believed in him, believed that he was indeed the Angel of Music. He reveled in her childish beliefs. With her ignorance, he could maintain the fabrication, and build a bridge between teacher and pupil. He would be a father to her, a friend she could confide in, and eventually, a protector who would shield her from the evils of the world.

Oh, if only it were so…

His hands clenched the sides of a wingback chair, the burgundy fabric distinguishing its aged exterior against his emaciated hands. With a sigh of reluctance, he slumped into the chair's comfy confines, the years of wear not distressing his need for solace.

Another headache afflicted him as he massaged his throbbing temples. The sporadic aches were common enough; at least two to three migraines visited him each day. Perhaps it was from the lack of sleep from the past weeks, but who could find sleep after what he'd been through?

Could it have been only a fortnight ago that he had lost everything? It felt as if years had passed by, and yet it seemed only hours ago that he felt her tears crashing upon his poor, misshapen face; minutes ago that he bade her farewell, and made her promise…

Why did he prolong this damned nightmare? Why did he not end his suffering and be done with it? Why could he not let go of a foolish dream?

The answer was simple: He could not give up something he wanted so badly, something he believed he deserved. He felt that the Christian god and the rest of the world denied him his right to be human, to live in the sunlight. How could a god, in whom people had a deep conviction in, curse him to live in the shadows that humanity evaded from? He did not perpetrate an unforgivable sin. He was punished for a crime he did not commit.

His faith in a heavenly deity was still in question. Until he found happiness, he would forever deny that a divine being cared for his pitiful soul. How could he be damned when he had not the chance to live the pious life of a saint? He was not born evil; society constrained him to commit his atrocious acts—it made him what he was.

How could anyone see past that horrid truth? People veiled themselves in a self-righteous cloak of vanity, their indignation just. They would search for a reason to condemn him, have his head placed upon a spike, and in public view.

But alas, their wondrous pursuit was always in vain. The enraged crowds of people from the past never found a living trace of their enemy—how fortunate for him. And now, he was safely concealed behind the precincts of his esoteric residence, left to rot away and no one care about his tragic passing.

He doubted that _she_ would keep her promise and bury his wretched corpse with the ring. His skeleton would be entombed in this cell, finding no rest. No one would remember the infamous Phantom that haunted the Paris Opéra. No one would care to know that he was more than a villain in a malevolent plot, manifested in the mind of an infatuated lunatic.

She had probably forgotten him by now. She and the ever-so-noble vicomte were probably planning their affirmation of wedded bliss at this moment... They would leave the city and reside in a lavish country estate or travel the world without the obligations of the de Chagny family.

Either way, they would find happiness—happiness, which he would never have.

A new wave of tears cascaded against the distorted flesh of his cheeks. His crooked lips trembled, his thin hair matted against his scalp. Dirt streaked his ashen cheeks, the show of not removing it proving his disinterest in cleanliness.

His indifferent thoughts were, however, abruptly adjourned when the all too familiar sound of the ring at the siren's door shattered the temporary silence. His head turned to the incessant sound, listening to its mechanical chime.

Apparently, he had another visitor, and a very foolish one at that. But the siren would not greet its guest with a song. No, it would remain mute and entertain its caller like it had so many others.

It no longer mattered that he indulge himself in the petty pleasures of captivating his guests with a mesmerizing song before beckoning them to join him the cold, unpleasant depths of the lake. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing except the comforting image of a beautiful girl who made him believe.

"Christine," he murmured softly, the name slipping into the darkness.

It was the first word he had uttered in two weeks, and the only word that still held meaning for him. It was in that simple name which all the dreams and aspirations he harboured came to life—hope lie within it. And yet, he could not hold on to that dream, especially when another took it away from him.

Wait, he corrected himself. She wasn't _taken_ from him, but _given_ to another, another with fairer looks—another who could offer more than a life of darkness. The vicomte was blessed with handsome features, wealth, and inevitably, a title.

Alas_, he_ was not so fortunate. Being born to a poor family in a small village, he lived off of the scraps his negligent mother provided. Never knowing his father, he concluded that he was at an advantage by staying oblivious to the man that had sired him. But at least where his mother had failed to love him, he could confide in his passion of music and various talents—which one day would compel him to carve a name for himself in the obscure rock of success.

And he had succeeded, rising above his station in life. He obtained enough wealth to put the French aristocracy to shame. The modern-day nobility wasted their assets on petty means of pleasure—gambling and expensive mistresses for the most part.

It was true that he also took part in many of those material pleasures, but that was long ago, and in another life. He was young, abrasive, and did not consider or even care where his destiny lay. All he knew was that his life held no meaning to the rest of the world, and it was wise to enjoy it while it lasted.

And so he had. Years of living on the edge taught him that life was truly overrated, and should be used only for pleasure. He watched as others fell on to hard times, or died from the lack of excitement in their frivolous lives. He had scoffed those who desired death, but later gave in to that weakness at last.

But now he no longer ridiculed those he had once deemed obtuse. Instead, he reluctantly agreed with them; life held no joy anymore. He was not content with the life he led, and he silently begged for a way out of it.

Sighing heavily, he rose from the dilapidated chair and walked to a large armoire. Opening the door he mechanically pulled a cloak from a hook, briefly glancing at the expensive, worn material. He instinctively covered his aching shoulders with the heavy velvet fabric, and turned to view his reflection in the side mirror.

Broken shards of the remaining mirror reflected a dark figure. The slender, lithe, muscular form was still discernible in the damaged glass, albeit a bit worn and beaten down by age and despair.

Dark, tawny eyes stared at the cracked reflection, regarding it with a dismal sense of dejection. His gaze worked its way from his feet to the shaded portion of his face. Removing his hat, he observed his visage. Forcing himself, he coldly observed the porcelain mask with visible disdain.

He scrutinized the concealed visage from memory, high cheekbones that contradicted with the sunken area around his yellow eyes. The rest of his flesh was taut and stretched over the rest of his face. The skin was mottled with age and death. A missing nose completed his horrid air.

Reluctantly, he removed the masked portion and stared at the deformity with growing disgust. His eyes glared at the misshapen countenance. No wonder Christine screamed the first time she looked upon his hideous face; he even disgusted himself.

But he forced himself to stare at the gruesome reflection. The blotchy skin resembled that of a decaying corpse, contrasting greatly from that of a normal face. The only distinctions that the skin was human—and alive—were the feral eyes staring out beyond its rotten texture. His thinning dark hair and threadlike eyebrows also added humanlike qualities to lessen the hideous features. But it did not fully conceal it.

A stray tear fell from a golden eye. The saltine droplet traveled down the uneven flesh, plummeting to the ground. The cold remnants of its passing stung his decayed cheek. He mindlessly wiped away the discomfort, and then screamed in unparalleled agony.

His heart wrenched from the pain of losing her. Either way he looked at it, he had lost her. He could not justify a lie.

Gathering the last of his composure, he gazed once more at the horrid image. His right hand clenched the fragile porcelain mask in a subtle act of resentment. He examined its delicate surface, noticing the minor cracks from years of wear. Without thinking, he threw it against the opposite wall; and watched it shatter, its broken remnants falling to the encrusted ground.

No matter, he had another to replace it. It was wise to have a spare when the situation represented itself. But he doubted he would use it, doubted he would ever conceal his ugliness to the fainthearted ever again.

Unadorned without his precious façade, he apathetically returned to the broken organ. He somewhat regretted vandalizing something so precious and comforting to him, but rage it seemed, did not maintain the consideration of a blind moment's release. And so his long fingers fell against the ivory keys once more, giving him the much-needed succour he desired.

It was not uncommon for him to play without his mask; he usually removed it before he fell into the gentle embrace of his music. However, it was the first time he allowed his abrupt temper to dictate his actions, and destroy something he needed. But when did he ever set his anger aside and listen to reason?

He was not perfect; he fully admitted that shameful fact, but at least he could work on his imperfections. He could create a masterpiece without having to worry about the criticism from others. He could stay here—alone—and be content, if only with his music. And yet that was a lie. His music could not save him from himself—only she could do that. But _she _was no longer here. He would have to accept that…eventually.

Faintly smiling to himself, he played a piece from when he first noticed her. The sweet, timid little girl who danced for an ungrateful public had the attention of a secret voyeur. Oh, yes, she was unique, if only to him.

And so he played, played until the sweet memory turned bitter and rapt with despair. His fingers cascaded against the keys, revealing his longing and loss of her. This would be all he had of her—a memory. But at least he could hold on to it and never let go.

The piece came to an end, and his tired fingers rested against the keys. Closing his eyes, he imagined her smiling at him, her sincere expression displaying love and trust. His heart ached for her, ached for her warmth, her touch. Well, he could dream. That would have to suffice, for she was the most beautiful and purist—

"_Mon Dieu!_ He wasn't jesting when he said you were ugly!" a deep, disparaging voice shattered the silence.

Turning to the anonymous voice's origin, he glared at a shrouded individual skulking near the armoire. The mysterious individual was covered by the friendly touch of the lingering shadows, adequately concealing his distinct features. A black cloak concealed most of his figure; a dark hood veiled his face from inspection. This man did not want to be seen by his host—his obscure stance proved that.

Silently cursing himself for ignoring the alarm, he muttered, "Welcome to my home, _monsieur._" He eyed the cloaked intruder gravely.

Amber eyes followed the shrouded interloper, as he lingered within the shadows. The stranger remained in his position, rigid and ready to defend himself against the monster before him.

"I would inquire you to sit and explain why I am honoured by your unexpected visit. Surely you would care to enlighten me as to why you would wish to look upon the face of a monster?"

The stranger remained silent, refusing to answer the imposing figure. He eyed the man facing him. The grotesque sight the idle musician twisted his gut. His benefactor was right; the man was hideous. Actually, '_hideous'_ failed to describe him. God, the creature before him was the incarnation of Shelley's Frankenstein monster, only more ominous. He would actually be doing this man—thing—a favour by putting him out of his misery.

"I'm waiting," the Phantom said impatiently.

A wave of uncertainty crashed against him, his concealed face betraying his stoic posture. Terror seeped into his mind, tearing away his composure. The sight before him was tearing him apart just by looking at him.

He was about to walk away, not say a word, and leave the job unfinished when he noticed the creature turn away, and return to his seat; his back to him.

"Whatever your reason for being here, you may leave intact if you do so now. I'm in no mood to add another casualty to my list. Consider yourself fortunate," he said airily, and placed his fingers against the keys once more.

Feeling discarded like a dissected corpse in a university, the stranger stared at the infamous Phantom's back with growing ire. How dare he turn his back on him! Did he not realize the danger of acting so recklessly? Perhaps, his employer was right; the man was insane—insane and eccentric.

Pride replaced his momentary anger, assuring him that he could bring this crazed apparition down. Gathering his composure, he pulled something out of the interior of his dark cloak. "_Monsieur_, I fear I cannot do that." He watched smugly as his prey turned to face him.

"Leave, before I change my mind," he warned, then turned back to the organ.

As he placed his nimble fingers against the smooth keys, a deafening shot was heard, breaking the serene atmosphere. He felt a sharp pain enter his right shoulder, knocking the breath out of him.

The Phantom fell in the darkness.

Watching the pitiful form wreathe in visible agony, the assassin sauntered to his target's side. Laughing, he watched his prey's erratic breathing. It was truly a pleasure to watch his victims fall, knowing their life was at an end by an unknown hand. Most died with a horrorstricken expression on their face. It would be a pretty sight to see this monster's illustration of fear.

Oh, yes, he had heard of the notorious Phantom who haunted the Paris Opéra House. He was a famed killer, and struck fear in those who dared listen to the unending rumours, which spread throughout the actors' community. This creature rivaled him: a cold-blooded murderer, but he could not confess that he did his job out of demented love; he worked for the highest bidder.

Well, at least this trite obligation would rid the world of a monster and would ensure his financial status for the rest of his life. His employer was truly mad to offer such an excessive amount for a man who hid himself away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears. But the wealthy were always known for their desire of keeping their hands clean from sinful, tasteless acts of cruelty. That was where his amoral occupation came in to play.

And so he took pleasure in this last bout of murder. Glaring at the wreathing figure, he kicked him with his muddied boot. "Well, _monsieur,_ I believe it was a pleasure meeting the famed Phantom of the Opéra. Truly, you were everything I expected you to be. Except for one thing." He stared at him derisively. "I expected you to at least put up a fight, not surrender like a beaten dog."

Amber eyes, filled with unmistakable hatred, glowered at the haughty executioner. It was one thing to murder in the defense of one's life, but strictly another when it came from the sheer pleasure of the act. It was time to educate his childish guest in the ways of true murder and how to successfully enjoy every pleasing moment.

The raw pain from the bullet seared his taut flesh as he held his left hand over the gaping wound. Blood tainted the flawless digits, making them appear gruesome, unnatural. The rest of his body was covered in perspiration from the unexpected pain. His only desire was to placate the plaguing irritation and pull away from consciousness. But first he would have to deal with his present dilemma.

Hiding his twisted grin, he feigned weakness and pulled himself away from his towering adversary like a wounded animal. With each movement, a sharp pain from the wound shattered his resolve. He bit the uneven edge of his lip as he crawled to the side of the organ's base. Only a few more inches…

Turing to see if his prey followed, he urged himself to lay on his side, pretending to fall victim, at last, to the pitiful attempt on his life. Even the devil himself, would fail in seeing him die.

His breath came out in a staggered sigh as his nameless murderer approached. He almost grinned at his improvised ingenuity; the fool has mindlessly walked into his trap. Fate had placed him in her fleeting favour today. And for that, he gave her imperious presence a silent salute.

"Tell me," he choked from the pain of the bullet. "Did it delight you by pulling that trigger, knowing that you would sign your own death certificate?"

Before his nemesis could answer, he pulled a rusted lever next to the organ. He watched, as pure, undiluted terror filled the assassin's eyes from the impending fall of a hidden scythe, the impact nearly lacerating the dumbfounded murderer in half.

He pulled himself near the freshly strewn carnage, observing his victim's horrorstricken expression. "Who sent you?" he asked, as a new throw of anger flooded his dark soul.

The assassin gaped at him, his eyes glazing over with abject defeat. He felt numb, and silently knew he was dying from the scythe's cruel impact. Feeling darkness cloud his vision, his breathing staggered; he nearly gave into the darkness, but something wrenched him away from the sweet absolution.

"Who sent you?"

Wild eyes, the colour of ardent amber bore into his soul—this man was a dark angel of judgment. And even though this judging seraph still obtained the pride and dignity of an arrogant lord. The verdict within the creature's yellow eyes was obvious.

He was bound for Hell. But he could at least remove one sin from his record. "The Vicomte de Chagny, _monsieur,_" he muttered weakly.

A new oscillation of fury filled the feral eyes; an unprecedented onslaught of anger tainted their yellow depths. "Was there anyone else involved?" he asked, malice tainting his dark voice.

The dying assassin looked at the wreathing Phantom and almost smirked from the concept. So, de Chagny was right; this creature was obsessed with the Daaé woman. So obsessed, that he wanted to know if she played a part in his attempted murder.

Either way, he was condemned to death, and it _was_ the vicomte's fault, after all. Why not cause some heartache for the lord and his soon-to-be lady? "It concerned a girl—a pretty wench, whom the vicomte considered important. I…she was involved, I'm sure…" He choked on a stream of blood.

"Christine," he muttered under his breath.

A sharp intake of breath staggered from the dying man's pale lips. He eyed his murderer with abject curiosity. It would be unfitting if he was to die without knowing his executioner's name. Gathering the remainder of his fading strength, he asked, "Tell me…tell me your name before I die."

The plea within his victim's eyes was quite visible. And so, the famed Opéra ghost relented. "Know that before you die that I am Erik." He suppressed a malicious grin. "It was very foolish of you to visit me. You would be in much better health had you not."

"Yes," the dying man admitted bitterly. "But you were very foolish to be enamoured with a woman, who helped conspire your untimely death."

Erik's throbbing muscles tensed from the assassin's cruel words. Even now, as he watched the dying man take satisfaction in seeing his growing anger, he still had a few questions he wished to pose.

Unfortunately, before he could obtain any more information, the assassin died from his tremendous loss of blood. He pulled away from the corpse, staggering to his coffin. Tossing aside his bloodied cloak, he tore the evening vest and white undershirt away and lay against the bed, his erratic breathing causing more pain.

Biting his lower lip, he forced himself to gather his remaining strength to find the instrument he needed. His weak hands fumbled through a nightstand drawer, searching for a knife.

His tired eyes rested upon the idle knife. Finding enough strength, he carefully placed the knife against the wound, and with a quick, precise movement, embedded the blade into his flesh.

Blood seeped out of the gaping wound. He was losing the last of his control, as he felt the small metal ball leave his skin and crash against the floor. Groaning with fatigue, he dropped the knife and collapsed against the bloodstained sheets, his last thoughts focused upon the couple that intended his demise.

His mind wavered on the edge of madness, as plots of revenge inundated his mind. He had let them go without a thought of intruding upon their lives; he promised them. And how had they repaid his kindness? By having an assassin hired to murder him! Oh, the boy would pay—both of them would pay for betraying him.

"Damn you, child," he cursed; then laughed madly at his misfortune. "Oh, yes, my dear, you will know what it's like to have the Angel of Music against you! You will pay for your betrayal against me: you and your lover!" He swore under his breath.

Closing his eyes, he constructed a vague yet legitimate plan. He would heal first, then notify his friend—the dear daroga—of his abrupt passing. Yes, all would be set into motion, and then he would have his revenge. His sweet Christine would cry when she saw her beloved fiancé suffer from the Phantom's wrath.

Oh, yes, revenge was truly savoured by the blood of thy enemy.

The Opéra ghost was coming…and Hell with him…

…

**Author's Note: This is merely the prologue to the story. I plan to make this fic a long one, with dangers and drama galore! I hope I have kept Erik in character. It's an old, crocodile fear I have, I suppose, but I wanted to write a continuation to the original Phantom—I just hope I can pull it off! **

**Please, let me know what you think of it thus far. :)**


	2. Chapter One: Descent into Hell

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter One.

_The de Chagny Manor, Rouen_

Her heart wrenched within her chest, as drops of perspiration trickled down her brow. Instinctively she wiped away the irritating saltine droplets and stared into the darkness.

The candle on the mantelpiece had burned out hours ago, leaving the large room dark and void. She shuddered, bringing her knees to her chest. She hated the dark. Since childhood, she feared the darkness, or rather what lie within its ominous cover.

"It was only a dream, just a terrible dream," she murmured to herself.

The whispered self-assurance did not comfort her; it only intensified her anxiety. Closing her eyes, she tried to wish away the terrible remnants of her elusive nightmare, but realized her mind refused to focus upon anything else.

Her erratic breathing returned to a semi-normal state, and was only comprised of a few shortened gasps in between an interval of shuddered breaths.

Christine forced herself to be calm. Hastily sketched rationalisations inundated her conscience, giving her the means to believe that her fear was only based on a childish notion of ignorance. A small, timid smile graced her pale lips.

And for a brief moment she believed that her dream wasn't real; that being here, safely locked behind a bedroom door was reality.

He wasn't here; he was far away, residing in the Paris underground—or at least that was what she wished to believe. In truth, she had not the slightest inclination to know where her former instructor was. For all she knew he could drinking Darjeeling, while watching a sunset in India. It would be like him to enjoy something she would never see.

A clash of thunder interrupted her dark musings. She watched the rain fall from the blackened heavens as it cascaded against the windowpane. She inwardly shivered, watching the icy drops stream down the cold, translucent glass.

The de Chagny Manor was as beautiful as it was ancient. An ancestor, fresh from the Crusades, built the towering chateau in the style of a miniature fortress, its walls made of granite and limestone. Massive stained-glass windows complemented the center foyer and dining hall. Persian rugs decorated the marble floors and bedrooms, their centuries-old fabric still in good condition.

But unlike the manor's neighbouring estates, its interior was not too modern or too gaudy. The new style turned away from the humble French furnishings to the garish taste of the English. It was hard to understand why one would desire to flood his household with cherubs and uncomfortable, dainty chairs. What happened to the need of having comfort instead of showing a sense of fashion?

Her room was untouched by these undesirable changes. Comfortable, dark blue walls allowed a reprieve from the kitschy female colours that plagued many households. She silently admitted that off-white and pastels were not striking to her taste.

The floors were dark obsidian marble, and accented with a large, ornamental Persian rug. She enjoyed the soft, cushiony feel of the rug's surface against her bare feet. It was a comfort she was not used to, especially since leaving Paris.

She frowned from the thought. There were too many memories there, too many regrets, regrets, she never wanted, never asked for. It was difficult to look toward a future when the past had been so painful. What if her future was littered with the same problems? What if they followed her?

Impossible. One could escape the past, run from it. But what kind of life would that be? How could one enjoy living when a constant dread of the past haunted his mind? She didn't want her ghosts to follow her, and she had many.

But this was not the time, nor the place to reflect upon them. Being here, safely tucked away from her dilemmas, was supposed to make her happy, relieve her. Her beloved fiancé took great pains in knowing that she was safe, content. It would dishearten him if he knew she was still vexed by her sudden flight from the stage.

And she missed it; missed the exhilaration, the excitement of standing before an audience and doing what she did best. Being the daughter of a brilliant musician strengthened her aspirations of becoming a known figure in the world of music. It was her dream to enthrall and captivate her audience with her voice.

A brief smile touched upon her lips as she thought of her meager attempts to sing an Italian _concerto_ without the orchestra. Her father applauded her, sweetly deceitful though he was. Without his kind words of praise, she doubted she would have even tried a life on stage.

Oh, how she missed him! She barely knew her mother, and her father was her entire world. He filled her mind with notions of a perfect world, where she could play the part of a beautiful princess and have her prince charming by her side.

But the world was not meant to be viewed through rose-coloured glasses. No, it was an ominous painting with harsh blacks and blinding whites as its guidelines. People were either good or evil—there were no shades of grey. Saints would enter the gates of Paradise, while sinners burned for their crimes in the blackened streets of Hell.

That was reality.

She forced the thought aside and massaged her temples. Although they were not troubling her addled mind, it was still a calming _modus operandi_—almost liberating. Already she could feel her tense muscles relax, her erratic pulse steady. Her trembling shoulders stopped their silent convulsions, feeling a slight sense of ease flow through them.

Her sore eyes turned to the large hearth, also furnished in the obscure, infamous marble. The blackness of the floor and hearth complemented the walls, which had melded into a dark, fathomless midnight blue, like gentle waves on the dusky sea.

She watched the fire within the massive grate, its turbulent embers searing her eyes and soul. She felt as if it were a observer, sent from an unknown source to watch her, judge her actions. Its subtle scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable, nervous. Trying to turn away from the portentous sight, she realized she could not. As if transfixed by its ghastly nature, she stared in the flickering amber flames. They were the same colour as…

Biting her dry, lower lip, she tore her eyes away from the fireplace, forcing them shut. Tears escaped the closed lids, their crystalline droplets tormenting her burning cheeks.

She sat there, oblivious to the rest of the world. She was a perfect model of fear. Imagine, the great and impenetrable opera singer who survived the wrath of a brilliant lunatic, crying over her own uncertainty, her wild imagination getting the better of her. Her lack of valor was pitiful.

And then a new resolve filled her, strengthening her confidence. She hesitated for a brief moment then opened her eyes. Shying her attention away from the fireplace—God spare her that much—glancing at the twin set of windows.

The casements were framed with black borders made of solid oak. Panels of sheer ebony silk hung from wrought-iron valances, their silken hems lightly caressing the marble floor. Their ensemble foiled the dark, hellish twilight with tranquil ambiance.

She gazed into the opaque darkness beyond the beaded glass, as if something were looking back, watching her. Her hand immediately touched the base of her throat in a subtle act of panic.

Without warning, a streak of lightning flashed across the angered heavens, a roar of thunder accompanying its insubstantial fury. Her heart pounded madly against the small confines of her chest, her pulse irregular—her face paling from the poor circulation.

And then she saw them…eyes of unnatural amber, their feral gleam boring into her soul. She remained still, paralyzed by the cold, murderous eyes. They spoke volumes of hatred and dark intent. By heaven, they could stab her with their vicious gaze.

Briefly she turned away from the window, hoping—praying—it was merely an illusion. Gathering her courage, she looked once more at the diaphanous orbs, but found nothing. A cold sweat surged through her weakened form as the bile within her abdomen churned.

Feeling nauseous, she closed her eyes and placed a cool, damp hand across them. Cold perspiration stained her muslin nightgown, making it fuse to her skin. With clammy hands, she pulled the irritating fabric away from her, allowing her flesh to breathe. The cool comfort soothed her, and eased her disquieted stomach. At least she would not find herself vomiting on the floor.

Another clash of thunder disrupted her muddled conjectures. Glancing once more at the window, she pulled the wrinkled sheets away and rose from the bed. She stared at the magnificent structure. With its mahogany frame and sculpted headboard, the Jacobean bed was truly a work of art.

Everything within the household was a work of art, actually. The de Chagny line had exquisite taste when it came to style. However, she felt out-of-place here, not welcome. Even though Raoul assured her that everyone would like and obey her, she could not help built feel the stares of envy and harsh whisperings behind her back.

Sometimes, she would withdraw from their spiteful glances and retire to her bedroom.

She was not of the nobility—would never be. Even if she married the vicomte, she would never be a true _aristocratica_; her bloodlines confirmed that. Wait, even if…?

Tonight's proceedings were starting to make her become irrational. First, by seeing things, and then, doubting herself and those around her. What madness was causing this shift in doubt? Not even a day ago, she was basking in all the happiness of the world, not caring about her past, her social class—only of the wondrous possibility of a bright future without the painful, bitter memories of the past.

She shook her head in dismay, faintly knowing she could never escape her past—it encircled her, forbidding her to leave. The vines of imprisonment coiled around her, driving their sharp thorns into her delicate flesh. It was a cruel reminder that she could never leave or forget. The poison within the black thorns would afflict her until death.

Her lips trembled as if the icy fingers of Death gently caressed them. Hot tears escaped her eyes, adding more sorrow to her blemished cheeks. She hastily wiped away the stinging beads and looked toward the dressing table.

It was a simple lady's table with an oval mirror. Two side drawers were used for keeping brushes and other feminine accessories. The middle drawer—which was lean and more compact—held various items, such as hairpins and smaller paraphernalia. The surface held various fragrances, and a set of ivory-handled combs, which she used only for special occasions.

Shaking her head, she walked to the idle table and stared at her reflection. Azure eyes reflected pain and doubt. She absently brushed away a tousled lock of hair, feeling it come loose from its confines and return to its previous position.

Giving an unladylike sigh, she conceded from trying to tame the wayward tendril. What did it matter? No one was here to see her disheveled mane. No one? Biting her lower lip, she opened the middle drawer. Her hands grazed over the diverse objects in the darkness, until her left palm graced against the smooth, cold surface of metal.

She stopped.

Her right hand pulled the constrained lip away from her teeth, making her chew the nail of her index finger instead. A terse sigh escaped her, as her fingers clasped the undesired object. Compelling herself, she held it. And for a few, uncertain moments decided whether or not to shut it back in its dark prison.

Since coming here, she concealed it, withholding knowledge of its presence. Raoul would be irate if he knew she was holding it. He would be greatly disappointed if he realized that she could not let go and forget about it.

Heaven help her, she tried to, but could not circumvent its looming presence. It was like its master; baneful and dominating—a presence from which there was not escape.

It was her wedding-present…and also her curse.

Silently she opened her sweaty palm and stared at its circular form. It shone brilliantly as flames from the fireplace danced upon it. Like little dancers, the flames both enthralled and frightened her—much like its master.

"Why do you haunt me?" she asked, fearing for a reply.

But there was no reply, only the sound of crackling embers in the grate, only the sound of her traitorous heart.

…

A chain of incessant knocks stirred her aching mind. She felt weary, drained from the lack of sleep. Her tired, azure eyes hesitantly opened, only to close once more against the harsh sunlight flooding in through the windows. If she were to ever live here, something would have to be done about the sunlight. The east wing was lovely, but the blinding rays of dawn were not something one could accustom oneself to, especially for someone such as herself.

"_Mademoiselle_," a haughty voice grunted on the other side of the door.

Ah, Francesca.

She almost rolled her eyes as the maid-of-all-work made another barrage of knocks. Truly, she almost pitied the door from the maid's constant rapping.

"…As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…" she muttered to herself. A lopsided grin graced her lips from the thought of the manic-depressive American poet. It was a shame he died when he had so much potential.

"_Mademoiselle_ Daaé, are you in there?"

"Yes." She waved off the invisible pestilence.

Without a moment's hesitation, a woman clad in a garish black ankle-length dress accompanied with a prudishly starched apron opened the door, and bustled to the bedside.

Critical grey eyes studied her, as if dissecting her soul. A brash _tsk_ing soon followed as wrinkled hands pulled the sheets away. "Bad night, _mademoiselle_?"

She refused to answer the maid's dry question. Out of all of the servants who despised her, Francesca Duparte was the worst. Since the moment she stepped foot on the grounds, the maid cast sneering glances toward her, as if saying she was not welcome, needed.

Finding it best to hold her tongue, she merely nodded. Francesca pulled back an invisible lock of iron-grey hair. "Shall I draw a bath for you, or would you like to dress?"

"I believe I shall postpone my bath until later. A morning stroll through the gardens sounds rather tempting." She had the grace to smile at the stoic maid, knowing that she displeased the servant.

She did not care if the old witch's feelings were hurt or not; she had to get out of here, out of this room, and away from the foreboding presence which haunted her. She could not breathe for its domineering manifestation, its crooked fingers squeezing the air out of her lungs.

"It's all right, _Madame_ Duparte; I have no trouble dressing myself."

The maid all but sneered. Pressing a craggy hand to her tightly coiled bun, she nodded, "I bet you don't." And with that she walked away, shutting the door behind her.

"Oh, Raoul, Raoul, I feel so unwanted here. Your servants despise me, for what I do not know." She looked at her hands, noticing the small, simple diamond engagement ring.

The diamond was marquis-cut, surrounded by a throng of delicate sapphires. A skilled goldsmith made the ring in the sixteenth century; its original owner was the vicomtess Alexandria de Locke, who married the fifth de Chagny under a betrothal for land in the southern region. Since then, all ladies married to the second son bore this ring.

Pulling it from her hand, she moved it between her thumb and forefinger. The ring felt heavy, weighted. Personally, she felt intimidated to wear a ring that belonged to another woman. It was as if she were taking their life, their role away from them. And for that, she felt like a thief.

"You should have gone to the grave with your original owner, not on another's finger." She frowned from the whispered acknowledgement. What if her fiancé were to hear such treachery? "Perhaps I can be a good wife and comtesse. Who knows? I might actually enjoy it."

Looking away from the ring, she turned her attention to the large armoire. It was in the same design as the Jacobean bed, carved with three-dimensional roses and vines. The double-doors were massive, always giving her trouble when she tried to open one. Perhaps it was the hinges, which needed oiling, or the fact the maids locked it when they finished dressing her.

It took her a week to wrench it away from their custody, but after much cordial pleading, she won the key. Besides, she preferred to dress herself instead of others helping her. It made her feel like an invalid, or a coddled child. She still had to be independent in some things. God forbid they have the notion of bathing her—which, thankfully, they wouldn't.

Servants were useful, but their job could lead to unnecessary requirements. At least they didn't spoon-feed her at dinner. In other provinces, it was common for the older gentry to have a servant cut their meat for them, or season their food. Truthfully they could do that on their own, but years of service left them dependent upon others. It would hopefully not come to that in her case.

Shaking her head, she pulled the furrowed nightgown over her, and tossed it on the bed. Crossing over to the armoire, she turned the key—which she deliberately left in the lock—and opened the door. She glanced at the ample selection of dresses, and decided to wear a thin muslin morning gown, decorated with seed pearls and lavish sage-green silk.

She heaved a smooth white chemise over her head, and then stepped into the gown. She gazed into the mirror and adjusted the loose fabric and frowned from the sight. Truly she was too thin to wear the gown, but she refused to complain since the rest of her clothing was still in Paris. It would be no trouble to retrieve them, but Raoul refused to return there—and she was strictly forbidden.

Her brow creased from the thought. Although she could not blame her beloved's good intentions, she still regretted to forget Paris altogether. It had been her home once, once before…

Raoul was right; it was wise to stay away and recover—if not permanently. If she had to, she would relinquish everything she held dear, even if it meant to avoid heartache, and she refused to distress her fiancé; he had been through so much.

She regretted even thinking about returning to the heart of their troubles. Raoul had been kind enough to loan her the gowns his mother had owned. The old count forbade the servants to dispose of them, leaving a lingering memory of the wife he'd lost to Raoul's birth. It must be hard for him to see her in something his mother wore before her death, she thought.

But he was always one to place his sensitivities aside to accommodate others. Being the son of a noble, most would not believe that he cared more about others than himself. His concern for his servants' welfare proved him to be considerate, and therefore, questioned by his peers.

Nevertheless, she loved him all the more for his sincerity and deep compassion for others. How could she not when he pleaded for her to marry him as if he were a street urchin and she a princess? He could not see the barriers between their stations; he treated her as his equal.

Her father was right in one thing at least: She had her prince.

She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing a pristine white gown instead of humble sage. Yes, a small, convenient wedding would be most fitting. It was all she could ever want. Checking her image once more, she tied a loose ivory ribbon in her dark hair and left the room with an actual smile.

…

The garden was pleasant at this time of day, the air not too hot or humid. Roses of pale pinks and gentle yellows graced the side windows and garden walls, their sweet fragrance faintly circulating through the mild wind.

She breathed in the delightful scent and veiled her eyes from the sun's teasing rays. The sky was a brilliant shade of azure—like her eyes. Puffy white clouds added detail to the brilliant canvas of the sky. One could not imagine such beauty after a harsh night.

A diminutive fountain burbled clear, where cool water flowed from its mechanical structure, portraying the garden as a small Eden. Rivers stones were set around it, giving it a more natural, earthy look.

Out of all the rooms and lavish areas, the manor's garden was certainly her favourite. She did not feel so confined, so out-of-place. In truth, she loved the outdoors, reveled in its sense of freedom. The garden felt so alive, so tangible, compared to staying indoors.

It was a gentle escape from the troubles plaguing her mind. She could lose herself to the calming, natural elements; find her self in a world without worry, without doubt. Oh, if only she could stay here and have the rest of the world forget her presence—a permanent hideaway with just herself to amuse. Wait, that was not right. Raoul would be there, too, sharing a lifetime of happiness in a world of their making.

It was an exceptional idea, but not logical to the world's standards.

Her brows slightly creased at the dark thought. Casting it aside, she carefully pulled a luxuriant pink rose from its confines and caressed its delicate petals. Breathing in the sweet fragrance, she allowed her mind to wonder.

"So beautiful," she murmured to the rose.

"Not as beautiful as you," a rich, teasing voice whispered in her ear.

Her eyes widened from her surprise. "Raoul, I did not realize you were behind me."

He looked at her apologetically, clasping her hands in his. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to frighten you. I only wished to surprise you."

She shook her head. "It's all right." Looking into his eyes, she laughed. "My mind was wandering. I doubt I would hear it thunder." A smile wavered upon her lips. "I'm glad you're here."

"There's no place I would rather be," he said, tenderly ushering her to a small wooden bench. Crossing his knees, he slouched against the bench's wooden frame. "I can see why you come out here every morning—the view is beautiful."

"I'm sure you came out here in the mornings when you were a child."

Raoul eyed her with a rueful expression. "I was more an indolent child, you could say. I hated getting up at dawn with the rest of the world. My brother would sometimes come into my room and drench me with cold water as a sort of friendly wakeup call."

She could not help but laugh. Noticing his injured expression, she stopped. "I'm sorry. I could not see your brother doing that to you."

He waved the apology aside. "Philippe was a good brother…" He stopped for a moment; looking beyond the garden walls, his expression unreadable. "I miss him, Christine. I truly do…"

She placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "It's all right, Raoul. He was so proud of you, and he knew you cared for him."

Raoul gazed into her soothing eyes, his laced with tears. "I feel as if I lost a part of myself. I know we argued, but siblings often do, and we forgave each other. Always."

Christine bit her lip, trying to find the right words to say. "I know…" she started, uncertainty lacing her tone. "I know you were close, and I also know that he would not want you to grieve for his passing. Seeing you unhappy, my love, hurts me."

"Oh, Christine," he murmured under his breath. Pulling her closer to him, he placed a chaste kiss across her forehead and reluctantly smiled. "You are the only one to give me light—comfort—now. I consider myself blessed to have you in my arms."

"There is no other place I'd rather be," she repeated his words.

Raoul's kind smile slightly vanished as he studied her face. Noticing the dark circles under her eyes, he asked, "Did you have trouble sleeping last night?"

With a stifled sigh, she turned away from his probing gaze. "The storm kept me up for part of the night."

He looked at her, unconvinced by her pitiful excuse. "Was there something else that kept you up as well?"

He received no answer.

"Come on, Christine," he cajoled, "you can tell me."

She closed her eyes; the dark lashes gracing her milky cheeks. "It was nothing, Raoul, really."

"This '_nothing'_ has troubled you enough to keep awake." He eyed her incredulously. "What was it? I want to help, my love."

She opened her eyes and looked at their joined hands. Shaking her head with reluctance, she muttered, "I had a nightmare last night…that's all."

His eyes were still skeptical. "Was _he_ in it?" Seeing the tears fall from her eyes, he pleaded for her to stop. "Christine, please, I cannot bear to see you cry!" He pulled her into a tight embrace the moment tears began to escape her eyes. "He's not here, belovéd; he cannot harm you."

"Oh, Raoul," she sobbed into his chest. "He was there…under the Opéra's stage… He was pleading for me…crying my name out! And there was blood…so much blood! I fear that something has happened to him, Raoul. I'm afraid he's hurt or…" She could not bear to say the other possibility.

He pulled away from her at arms length. "Christine, it was a just a dream. It was probably precipitated by your thoughts and concerns."

"No," she deviated, and returned his impenetrable stare. "No, it was more than that. Raoul, I need to go back. I need to see if he's all right…"

Raoul's soothing hands dropped away from her arms, his eyes as cold as ice. "No," he objected with cold disdain. "I forbid it."

Christine stood from the bench, offended by his autocratic words. "Raoul, I _have_ to." She gave him no time to respond. "I cannot stay here and do nothing, while he could be in pain."

"What about my pain, Christine? Do you remember what he did to us? And now you wish to return to his side?" He cursed under his breath. "You cannot imagine the pain I go through when I think of that monster." He glared at her with bitter resentment. "I lost Philippe because of him."

She said nothing for fear of his reaction. This was the first time he acted as if an unknown spectator was observing him. She believed she saw a growing dread—fear—within the depths of his glacial-blue eyes. And then after a moment's deliberation, it was gone, replaced by a veil of detachment.

A long, foreboding silence endured, the static air filled with tension. The couple stared at each other, their stance unmoving. It was like a calm before the storm, the rigidity between elements pricked before a harsh dispute.

Christine emitted a terse breath, feeling the blood in her veins congeal. She gazed into her fiancé's eyes and saw the uncertainty within them. He was concerned for her. Not only concerned, but also afraid for her safety against such a madman. She could not blame him for being angry. Her reckless conjectures interfered with her chain of reasoning. Raoul was right; she could not return to him—not because of a dream.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I wasn't thinking…I suppose it's my heart thinking instead of my mind, and I feel as if something is terribly wrong." The tears within her eyes reflected her worry and regret.

"Christine," Raoul grasped her hands once more. "Please, do not think ill of me, but I believe that it would be better to stay here for his sake—for our sake. If he sees you again, he may never recover. You would not want to add further injury to him, would you?"

"No." She looked down, ashamed.

"My darling, it was just a dream. I'm…sure he's all right. Who knows? At this moment, he could in those godforsaken Americas."

Christine looked into his eyes, seeing a trace of vague certainty. Did he know something she didn't? It was highly unlikely. He would tell her if something was wrong. He was not known to keep secrets from her, especially when it concerned her mentor.

"You're probably right," she discredited her foolish dream. "I should not be concerned about something silly as a dream, something that's not real."

A feeble smile appeared upon his lips. "Christine, you've been through a lot—we both have—and this experience has taken a toll upon you. But we no longer have to look over our shoulders anymore. As soon as I'm free from my obligations, we can marry, and leave France without ever having to look back."

Christine nodded, understanding why he had to leave her. Raoul was burdened with Philippe's business holdings after his murder. It was bad enough to see to the funeral arrangements, but to also tie up a few loose ends after such a tragedy was enough to enrage her at the law's cruelty.

But business was, as much as she hated admit it, business. And even though it would embitter her to see him leave, she accepted it without complaint. Looking deeply into his eyes, she noticed the boyish gleam that had once captured her heart. Raoul was still a child in so many ways…

She concealed her trepidation of his words. It would difficult for to leave France permanently, even when she was returning to her native Sweden. "Yes," she said faintly. "I would like that very much."

Raoul read the emptiness within her tone. Mistaking it for regret, he whispered, "What's wrong, my dearest? You look as if you do not want to go, like your heart is tearing itself in half."

She gave him a smile that melted away his worry. "We can go—there is nothing for me here."

His hesitation was evident in his answer. "Are you sure? We can stay here, it's whatever you desire."

"What I desire is to be with you, Raoul."

He clasped her hands tighter. "Christine, my love…you finally be my wife and I your husband." He savoured the words and the secret knowledge of obtaining this lovely woman. He could not want for more than have her by his side. But first came his unwanted obligations…

His jovial expression became serious once more. "As soon I resolve a few loose ends in Marseilles; we can be married, leave here, and never return."

Christine mirrored his concern, but managed to hold a weak smile. "Then hurry, my love. I cannot wait to start our lives without pain, without regret…" She looked down at her hands. "I want to leave, here, with you." Her eyes returned his diaphanous gaze. "Help me forget every thing that has caused us pain…"

Raoul frowned at her soulful words. "You have my word on that, my love." His voice remained grim, foreboding. "My business venture with the spice shipments will be over in a fortnight. After that, my beloved Christine, we're free."

Free. The word filled her mind with endless possibilities. But she did not feel the sweet liberation of the word. Instead, a heavy weight was tightly chained around her heart and soul. However she would not allow her beloved to see her insecurity. No, she would wear a mask this time; wear it until her uncertainty faded, and she had no further need of the deceitful façade.

"Then hurry, Raoul. There is so much to look forward to when you return."

Raoul kissed her palm with his naïve, boyish charm. It was the same naïve charm that made her fall in love with him when they were children. And now with their impending idyll of bliss, she could barely restrain herself from waiting until his return.

He kissed her cheek once more, and with loving eyes whispered, "Let no other kiss your cheek while I'm gone."

"Never!" she teased. "You will be the _only_ man who has that privilege."

"I will hold you to your word." He grinned, revealing a small dimple. "I shall be back before one tear falls from your lovely eyes." He assured her, then affirmed their love with a tender-taken kiss upon her supple lips.

Christine gently sighed, closing her eyes as Raoul whispered sweet declarations of his love for her, his eternal devotion. She was lost in a sweet escape of blissful dreams and euphoric sensations. Her wait for Raoul would be difficult, true, but well worth it.

She would have him for the rest of her life…

…

A terrible downpour of rain dampened her spirits for the next few days. It had barely been a week since her beloved's departure, and already she felt the bitter sting of loneliness.

The rain did not improve her dismal mood. With the sun obscured behind heavy clouds, she could not venture into the garden, which was certainly a bog by now. She had only the interior furnishings and her books to keep her occupied.

Glancing over the substantial variety of books, she pulled a tattered version of _Wuthering Heights_ away from the massive bookcase. Her fingers lightly traced the faded gold letters, thinking this book was greatly loved by its previous owner—the Comtesse Moerogis de Chagny.

She seated herself comfortably in the large burgundy divan by the bay window and began to read.

It seemed as if a moment had passed, when, in fact, it was hours. She grudgingly tore her eyes from the book and glanced at the small ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. The tiny dials read half past seven, her eyes widened from the realization. Had she actually wasted five hours reading a book? It was certainly worth it; Brontë outdid herself when she wrote about a tragic love triangle, and utilized the idea of civilization versus primal passion.

She found herself despising the poor, idiotic Catherine and her blind infatuation for Heathcliff, while in turn she broke her husband, Edgar's, heart. The novel was wonderful, she had read it many times as a girl, but did not realize her hatred for Heathcliff softened over the years.

He reminded her of a dark angel, or the elusive Lord Byron. With his sinister manipulations, he managed to gain both estates, but in the end died without the one thing that mattered to him most—his requited love from Catherine.

Her heart pitied him, pitied him for his madness and will to dominate. It was as if he wore a mask, a mask, which veiled his true self from the rest of the world. To everyone, he was a dark, foreboding man with evil intentions, when, in reality, he was in pain for his love's betrayal.

He reminded her so much of…

It was wise not to draw such mindless conclusions. Besides the day had been gloomy enough. Troubling her thoughts with unwanted memories would conclude the terrible evening.

Setting the book on a nearby desk, she stood and massaged her sore neck with her hand. She groaned from the sharp pain of her aching muscles. Silently scolding herself for sitting in a slouched position, she left the library and proceeded to her bedroom.

She glanced at her reflection and slightly grumbled about her horrid appearance. Her hands reached for a loose pin when a cheery voice stopped her. "You are a vision, my dear!"

Christine turned and smiled at the small, meek lady sitting on the olive chaise. "Mamma! You should not be walking," she found herself gently scolding.

The older lady twisted her smile into a repentant smirk. "I didn't walk here all the way, my dear. I had a servant to aid me, and I dismissed them."

"Just as long as you don't overexert yourself. I don't want you to have another fainting spell—like last time."

"Oh, no, no, my dear. That won't happen again, I assure you. In fact, I feel quite well at the moment."

Christine did not argue. How could she when the lady before her always won the dispute? It was better to agree and subtly suggest her intentions, instead of forcing them on another—who was shamelessly obstinate.

"I'm glad," she finally said, and took a seat beside of her surrogate _mère_. "Is everything to your liking, here?"

Bright eyes stared at her with delight. "It's like living in a palace, with the fancy furnishings and servants to go along with it! Of course I love it, my dear." Her childlike eyes gazed at Christine, deep question residing within them. "But you don't, do you?"

"No, I—" She stopped herself.

Mamma Valérius smirked at Christine's mistake. "I thought so. You can fool the servants, your fiancé, even the world, but you cannot fool this old woman; I know you too well."

Christine looked at her hands. "I suppose you do. You will not tell anyone, will you?"

A wrinkled smile eased her worry. "Promise," she laughed, crossing her heart. "No one will be the wiser."

"Thank you. It's just that I'm so new to this, and I'm afraid that I'll do something wrong and—"

"Now, now, I know you are nervous, and I know you've been through a lot, but Christine, there is something you need to know." The brightness within her blue eyes dimmed.

She read the hesitance within the older lady's eyes, and knew something was not right. "What is it, Mamma?"

The older woman remained silent, her lifeless eyes fixed upon something beside her. Unwillingly, her gnarled hands pulled a thin set of folded papers from the chaise's crease. Her pale lips creased into a firm line as her hazy eyes stared at Christine with an unknown, reluctant expression.

"I did not want to show you this, _ma petite_. I debated whether or not to all day, seeing as you were so happily engrossed with your book. I could not bear to disturb your silent reverie, my dear."

An abrupt chill of trepidation raced down her spine. Taking _Madame_ Valérius' hands in hers, she affirmed her friend's hesitant judgment. "But to keep something important hidden from me, would be worse. Tell me, Mamma Valérius, what is it?"

The dull eyes closed, as she handed Christine the article. Without a word, she turned her attention to the window, refusing to see the opéra singer's expression. Her ears burned when she heard a quiet sob escape the girl. "I'm sorry," she finally muttered under her breath.

Christine's worst fears were proven true. Her tearful eyes stared at _Le Époque's_ headline:

"Erik is dead."

She felt as if someone took a pistol and shot her in the heart. So much passion, so much anguish was derived from those three simple words. Unwilling tears spilled from her eyes like a broken-down floodgate. A sense of dizziness overcame her, forcing her to close her eyes as a chain of uncontrollable sobs filled the room.

"Erik, please forgive me. Please, forgive me…" Christine murmured into the still air, her words drifting into the deafening silence.

"It's all right, my dear." Mamma Valérius placed a comforting hand on Christine's shoulder. "He would never blame you for this; he loved you, _non_?"

Christine looked into Mamma Valérius' pliant gaze. "I betrayed him! I should have went back that night… Oh, Mamma, he was calling to me; pleading for me! And I didn't come when he needed me the most."

"What are you talking about?" The older woman held her trembling shoulders.

"I had a dream a few nights ago—the night of the terrible storm? I heard his voice calling me, begging for me to return. There was blood everywhere, Mamma!" She pointed her sorrowful, teary gaze to the article. "And now this. I could have done something to help. And now he's dead…because of me…"

"Oh, my dear, that was not your fault. You thought it only a dream. In any case, it was. How could you know that he was in danger? Don't blame yourself for things you cannot control."

Christine gave a regretful look that tore the older woman's heart. "But I do. I should have returned that night. I should have listened to my heart instead of my mind. He would still be alive…"

"Maybe so. But you do not know that for sure. And now you have to go back, and keep your word?"

"Raoul forbade me to return to Paris; he said it was too dangerous."

"_Oui,_ but your fiancé is not here at the moment."

A subtle meaning behind the old woman's cryptic words finally dawned on her. "What are you saying? That I should go back without Raoul or anyone knowing? He would be very upset with me if I disobeyed him."

"Indeed he would." She gave Christine a quizzical glance. "But who is to know?"

"Are you saying that I should?"

Reading the prima donna's uncertainty, she nodded. "Against my better judgment, I believe keeping your word to an angel is more important than staying here out of fear. Christine, _mon petite_, even now he needs you. Can you go back on your word, when you know it would break the both of you?"

A weighty silence hung between them, both unable to speak. With a visible sigh of disinclination, Christine slowly nodded. "It seems that it's the least I can do for him." She muttered under her breath. "You will not tell anyone, will you?"

A minute smile returned to the old woman's face. "Do you think this old sack of bones would boast to the world that Christine Daaé is going to keep a promise to an angel? You take my loyalty lightly!"

"Thank you, Mamma, thank you." Christine held the widow's gnarled hand, and with a gentle squeeze of assurance, left the chaise.

Her unsteady legs crossed over to the other side of the room. Opening the middle drawer of the dressing table, her trembling fingers graced the surface of the simple gold ring. Picking it up, she whispered, "You will always have a way to bring me back to you, _non_?"

Looking at Mamma Valérius, she inclined her head in a firm nod. "I will be back before Raoul finds me missing. I promise."

"I know, _ma petite_. I hope your journey is successful," she said, her furtive words subtle and without explanation.

Christine silently accepted the enigmatic words, knowing it was unwise to press the statement. Pulling a small valise from the armoire, she packed a plain, blue evening gown, a chemise, and a few other garments. Glancing back to her old friend, she mouthed, "I will be back."

Mamma Valérius said nothing. Instead, nodded solemnly and waved her on.

Christine left under the veil of darkness, the servants oblivious to her sudden departure. She trudged on the muddied road, forcing herself not to complain about its condition. Eric needed her, and by Heaven, she would keep her word. She would not fail him in this, not like so many times before.

Her eyes filled with determination; her mind set. She would return to her angel, if only to keep a promise, a promise, which was held in reluctance, and yet, compelled her to keep it.

And she would.

…

The journey across the Seine River—along with trudging across miles of muddy roads—disheveled her appearance. She knew she looked terrible, the expression on the ferryman's face confirmed it.

Let them stare. She had no time to ponder upon the opinion of others who scrutinized people that did not suit the standards of normalcy.

She refused to consider her messy appearance, the caked mud on the hem of her gown, or her unpinned hair, was the least of her concerns. She appeared a brash ragamuffin, who looked as if she escaped a seedy brothel. At least her clothes were in tact, and her breasts were not hanging out of the bodice.

Forcing herself to stay focused, she strode down the vacant sidewalk, only passing by a group of men in evening coats and top hats, which were exiting a gentleman's club. She had the grace to smile at their perplexed expressions, laving them to stare after her quickened stride.

Her heart raced within her chest as she drew near the Opéra house. She gazed at its magnificent structure with the same awe she had since her first look at the grand edifice. It had not changed since the three weeks that followed her flight from its extravagant stage. A fleck of disappointment filled her. But what else did she expect when she left? That the Opéra house would collapse once she left its hallowed halls? She took her sense of reality lightly.

She stood at the massive iron gates, and watched the string of opera lovers exit the main doors. It would be unwise to go in when others would be able to discover her presence.

Her rationalisation overcame the urge to bolt through the doors, and finish the job at hand. The Opéra mangers—along with the employees—would question her mysterious disappearance from the stage, and the horrid events that followed it, events, which, she found no desire to discuss.

Her wait developed into a stilted hour of standing in the dark confines of an alleyway. The darkness would camouflage her, as well as keep her safely hidden from threatening bystanders, some of which would be unhesitant of reliving her of her valise—and possibly her innocence.

Many cautioned her about traveling down the darkened streets of Paris. The night held an aura of its own: both good and evil. Her father warned her about traveling alone, suggesting of having a friend or decent chaperone accompany her at all times. It was a shame she could not acquire one now, but her mission had to be completed alone.

She shivered from the slight anticipation, which coursed through her veins. Turning her attention back to the Opéra house, she noticed that most were leaving the building, including a very flustered pair of managers.

They passed by, oblivious to her presence.

"Did you see how she performed tonight? God, it was like a cat screeching as if its guts were being pulled out by a fork!"

"Not so much as saw, but heard, my good man," the other corrected.

"Firmin, this new production is a disaster, and you know it!"

Firmin Richard rolled his eyes. "Armand, you know that most dancers cannot sing, much less carry a tune."

"Yes," Armand admitted gravely. "It's a pity that after all that has happened, I somewhat miss the mysterious O.G. With his constant criticism, our Opera was at least presentable."

Something akin to fury engulfed Firmin's eyes. "I don't want to hear it! I'm through with vicomtes, missing prima donnas, and opéra ghosts! I will hear no more about it, Armand!" he threatened, not caring if others heard his angered declaration.

Christine watched at they walked down the street, and disappeared into the darkness. Shaking her head in silent dismay, she regretted not being able to lift one of their concerns. But she couldn't, not at the risk of being discovered, and forgoing her promise.

She waited for another strenuous half hour before proceeding to the Opéra house. Finding it best to slip in through one of the side doors unnoticed, Christine carefully avoided those still in the building.

Hiding behind an idle set of curtains, she waited until the remaining lights were extinguished, and silently made her way to her former dressing room. It did not trouble her to navigate through the darkness. The Opéra house was like a second home to her, and she knew most of its maze-like corridors by heart.

Passing by the corner leading to the dressing rooms, her hurried stride stopped as her eyes met those of a very familiar face.

Ambiguity, which melted into unprecedented hope, lit the dark eyes of the inquisitive Meg Giry. Christine's mouth opened in mute surprise. She knew the little dancer would run to her, call out her name in excitement, and shatter her secrecy.

Shaking her head, she held out her hand for the dancer to stop. Meg obeyed, albeit hesitantly. She watched guiltily as the hope died away from the girl's eyes. Amending her harsh command, she placed a finger to her lips, and with a saddened look of reluctance, left Meg standing in the dark hallway, confused and alone.

Christine abruptly shut the door behind her. Locking it, she forced herself to the edge of the dressing table and stared at the vague reflection in the vanity. She had precious, little time before someone happened upon the locked door, for she doubted Meg would reveal her presence.

She truly regretted not embracing her, and assuring her that she was all right after everything that had happened. She could, and would. But first, she had to ensure her promise, and travel down to the hellish darkness of the man who had once gave her the voice of a siren.

Her finger found the trick switch. Pulling the tiny, indiscernible mechanism, the false mirror opened, revealing a dark tunnel.

Christine closed her eyes in brief uncertainty. She had made it this far; she would be damned if she didn't see it all the way through. Inhaling a nervous breath, she stepped through the mirror, and closed it behind her.

Her descent down the darkened stairway made her remember the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. The tragic tale of a blossoming love, which was quickly withered by the death of the fragile nymph, pricked her lover's heart. The pain of losing her made his life unbearable, and in an insane attempt, dared the journey to the darkened depths of the Underworld.

It was there he found the soul of his beloved wife, but it was impossible to take her dampened soul back to the living. His plea to the dark god, Hades, did not go unheard. Orpheus was permitted to take the soul of Eurydice back, but not without a price…

If he so much as glanced back at the hollow face of his love, he would lose her for eternity. Orpheus agreed. He endured the arduous journey back to the light. He was between the barriers, which separated the living from the dead, when in a moment of doubt, turned to look upon the face of his Eurydice, and there, lost her forever. Orpheus' fate was not a pleasant one after his grievous loss.

He was dismembered by a jealous mob of women, who threw his lyre and severed head into the sea. The two combined, where the demigod became an oracle, cautioning those of love, tragedy, and fate.

Christine felt very much like the tragic musician, but quickly dismissed the thought.

Her quiet steps echoed against the hollow underground. She breathed in the dank, moldy air, feeling the dampness enter her lungs. Pressing on, she entered the cavern with the well.

The scene felt all too surreal. Darkness touched everything within sight, leaving all under its shadowy dominion. It reminded her of Erik: volatile and foreboding. The stagnant air filled her lungs with its insipid fragrance.

An unexpected shiver ran down her spine as she observed the gloomy underground. A shuddered breath escaped, compelling her to look away from the dismal atmosphere and stare at the ground. She found very little comfort as her eyes riveting over the muddy earth. There was no point in prolonging her torture; it was best to finish this task and leave. The sooner the better, she thought.

With new determination, she trudged through the muck, not caring if it added to her filthy skirts. Her feet led her to the appointed spot where Erik said he would be. Walking to the obscured side of the cavern, she crept to the corner where the well quietly loomed within the shadows.

Taking her eyes from the ground, she compelled herself to look at it, look at the place of impending death.

And there she saw him…

Her burning eyes did not betray her. For there, lying deathly prone on the ground was the mad, musical genius who taught her how to sing; his body deathly still in the lingering shadows.

Without reserve, Christine ran to the motionless body's side, fell to her knees, and wept like a child. Tears cascaded down her ivory cheeks, her clenched fists trembling from the sight.

Words could not convey the measure of guilt she felt. She felt remorse bleed through open pores, the sorrow of betrayal searing her soul. God would damn her for such a travesty. This man's blood was on her hands, and she, unable to wash it away.

She stared at the lifeless form, her hands silently running over its stiff back. With reluctance, she pulled the corpse over so she could look into the appalling visage of the angel she had once come to adore.

The body was draped in an elegant evening suit, the dark fabric making it hard for her to discern any physical features. A hat maintained the loose, dark strands of hair, while a mask concealed the grotesque deformity.

The mask was dark violet; its saddened almond-shaped eyes bore deeply into her heart. She did not have to ponder over the leather obscurity's origin—it was Romeo's tragic mask from the Capulet family's lavish party.

It was a fitting façade for the occasion—in a morose sort of way.

The harsh realization finally materialized; she was the cause of this man's tragedy. Much like Juliet, she beheld the inert face of a man she had once come to care for.

She forced herself to pull the tiny gold band from her pocket. The cold metal did not affect the numbness of her body. Staring at its simple metallic shape, she carefully placed it on the ring finger of the corpse's hand. The silent act tore her last shred of composure, as the impending torrent of bittersweet tears fell from her deadened eyes…

"Oh, Erik…I've come too late! I'm so…so sorry." She murmured, through broken sobs over the corpse.

"I wager you are."

Her staggered breathing halted, as she felt cold, icy fingers wrench her away from the cadaver. The congealed blood in her veins loosened, surging through her body with uncontrollable speeds. Numbed skin felt the sharp pinpricks of a thousand driving needles. Unable to bear the harsh revelation, Christine screamed in agony at the haggard visage before her.

A few, tense moments of silence lingered between them. Unable to find her voice, Christine kept her eyes to the ground, refusing to face the man before her. She tasted the cruel bitterness of deceit and inwardly despised the looming creature.

"How…" the only word she could utter, before the massive figure turned on her.

"How could I deceive you, Christine?" a raspy voice asked. "With ease. Why did I, I believe you know that answer."

Christine closed her eyes, forbidding her self to look at him. "I…I was a fool to come, to believe you needed me."

"Need you?" the dark, insidious voice scoffed. "My dear, I daresay you're the last thing I need."

The callous remark stung her. Wincing from the barb, she inquired, "Then why, Erik?" She eyed him intently, defiantly. "Why did you put that notice in the article? Why did you deceive me?"

Erik paced back and forth like a caged animal, ready to vent its rage at its encased prison. "I see that I need to refresh your memory. Well, I was never one to prevaricate the truth. Allow me to indulge you, _child_," he spat out the name in an abrasive whisper. "You and your cowardly lover failed in your sweet attempt to rid yourselves of me! Suffice it to say, I'm still very much alive—unfortunately for you…"

Christine looked up at him, dumbfounded. Her dark brows creased together in apparent confusion. "What are you talking about, Erik?"

"What am I talking about?" He looked at her as if she were mad. "What am I talking about? Damn it, Christine! Your lover hired an assassin to have me murdered! How can you look so damnably innocent when you were the one to give the consent?"

Clear surprise masked her pallid features. "I never consented to anything!" she said, her tone bordering on exasperation. "I don't understand these terrible allegations you've placed upon me and Raoul. But I swear _we_ had nothing to do with it!"

He eyed her incredulously. "Nothing to do with it? I somehow doubt that."

With his cruel, unbelieving words, Christine turned her back on him, filled with hurt and anger.

"Don't turn your back on me, Christine!" he sneered, forcing her to look into his murderous eyes.

His ironclad grip eased when he heard a sharp gasp of terror. Tears spilled from her azure eyes, and for a moment, he regretted deceiving her, regretted putting her through this brutal interrogation.

However, his moment of weakness disappeared as it had strangely materialized. Pulling her closer to him, he forced her to meet his maddening gaze. "Do not recoil from me like a terrified child, Christine," he said under his steely breath. "I refuse to hit a woman. Even one so treacherous as yourself."

With his cold affirmation, he released her, pushing her away from him. Christine stumbled back from the unexpected shove, and stared at him with silent dread. "What do you plan to do to me, then?" she muttered under a sharp breath. "Are you going to torture me?"

She watched Erik's broad shoulders stiffen. Turning to meet her gaze, a wry smile formed on his crooked lips. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Yes, I'm going to torture you."

"Then throw me into one of your horrid rooms and get it over with!"

He examined her irresolute expression, her fragile bravado on the verge of collapse. Shaking his head, he amended, "Physical torture is too good for you, _mon ange_. I have in mind another proposal."

"Please, don't! Erik, please, I never wished to hurt…" she cried. "Why are you doing this? I came back to you on my own accord. I have traveled from Rouen, crossed the Seine, and rushed to Paris to return to you!"

"You crossed the Seine, for me?" he asked, deep mockery contaminating his beautiful voice. "I feel honoured, truly!"

She looked away from him, defeated. "Raoul was right," she whispered to herself. "I should have listened to him…"

"Don't mention that boy's name in my presence!" he threatened, forcing her slanted face to meet his once again.

"Christine, I could hate you as much as I do that brainless Jacobite, but that would cause me to wring your pretty little neck." He held her trembling form in his callous arms. "No, I've a much better use for you…"

Fear quaked within her from the cryptic statement. Erik relinquished his hold on her, and turned away, silently daring her to respond.

Smiling at his adversary's newfound silence, he nodded for her to follow him. Christine remained still. Finally betraying her vow of silence, she asked, "Are…aren't you going to bury him?" She frowned at the flaccid form.

Erik looked at her, his expressionless eyes glancing at the body, then to her. "Oh, no, my dear, I will leave that duty to you since you came here with such _high_ expectations of burying _me_. I should not deprive you of that honour." Walking away, he added, "There's a shovel behind the well should you need it."

He almost laughed at the desperate cry of despair. Even horrified, Christine could shake the walls with her angelic voice. Her despair soothed him, assured him that he had the upper hand, and sweet victory was within his grasp.

Erik left her to bury the poor, stupid fool of an assassin. He observed her through cold porcelain eye slits as she thrust the shovel into the dark earth. Black dirt clung to her smooth ivory skin, her hair in disarray. She was the portrait of tainted beauty, the imperfections veiling the true loveliness underneath. In this perspective, she was much like himself, beautiful, yet appalling by nature.

It took Christine well over three hours to dig a decent enough grave for the poor soul who fell upon Erik's wrath. Who was this man? she wondered. Did he have a name to go along with the masked face? She didn't dare remove it, not when Erik forbade her to pull the ring from the corpse's finger.

_'Let the fool take it to the Afterlife with him. Perhaps he can buy his way into Heaven with it.'_ He told her crisply, and turned away without a second thought.

She had barely finished covering the grave when Erik returned. Feeling his eyes upon her, she looked down, finishing the petty interment.

"Come, Christine," he finally said.

Christine stiffened, the gravity of his words struck her with a thousand sharpening blows. She moved away from the poorly buried grave, but did not obey him. The former prima donna remained where she was, a statue of immaculate splendour.

Impatience tugged at Erik's reasoning. Biting back an oath, he reached for her, entwining his fingers around her bare arm. The contact did not send electrifying chills, as it once would have. Instead, he felt only anger from the warm connection.

"Christine," he bit out her name in tangible irritation. "I will not ask you again."

He received only silence, but obtained her broken will.

She looked at the beached boat on the dark shore. It was still here after the narrow escape from Erik's insanity. She faintly remembered getting out of the boat, as Raoul pulled it on the shore. Had it actually been three weeks ago? God, it felt as if a century had passed.

She watch his chalk-white hands shove the boat into the lake. Boarding its narrow shell, he held his hand out to her, beckoning her to join him.

The combination of his imposing visage and untimely setting placed him as an incarnation of Charon in her mind. His luminous eyes gleamed within the poor lamplight, giving her the impression of his willingness to ferry her across to the elusive underworld. Unfortunately, she had no money to pay him, nor anything of value.

And yet, his impatient stance revealed that he was willing to make the journey without pay. Only the sickening gratification of her unwilling forfeit sated his desire for a price. And that cost was dire…

Erik's ominous glare brought her out of her dark musings as he handed her the oar. "Row," he said coldly, the bitter edge in his sonorous voice challenging her to object.

Christine could not find the will—or strength—to oppose him; the last of her courage was gone. Her hands clasped onto an oar, pushing its long figure into the murky water. He rowed in the dimness of the immense cavern, seeing only by the small light of the boat's tiny lantern.

Her arms were beginning to feel weak from the strain of rowing, her arms not adjusted for such demanding labour.

About to rest from the harsh demand of rowing, she felt the boat hit the lake's other edge. Hesitantly she removed herself from the vessel, and stood on the grimy shoreline, her feet sinking into the soft clay.

Christine paced on the edge of the dense embankment, her nervous hands clasped behind her back. Her sweet vacillation lasted for only a moment before she saw Erik enter the house, her presence unimportant to him.

She dismissed his cold demeanour and glanced at the house once more. It looked vacant and empty, no light beckoning from any of its dark windows. She felt a cold chill surge down her neck to the base of her spine. Without another thought, she forced herself to walk to its shadowy domain.

A stifled sigh held her at the door, the hesitance within her soul visible. She forced her childish trepidation aside and opened the door.

Stepping through the dark threshold, Christine glanced at the silent room. The halls and entrance were overcast with shadows. She felt their looming presence close around her and envelope her with their dark insinuations of hidden desire.

A barrage of faded memories returned to the forefront of her mind, the vague image revived and alive with vivid clarity. Erik—her Angel of Music—was at the center of these conjectures, haunting her with the ghostly past of their arcane relationship.

It was then she saw the actual monster before her. The taunting replicas in her mind's eye dimmed in comparison to the original.

She stepped forward, albeit hesitantly, then stopped. Her words refused to surface, acknowledge themselves to him. Christine gaped at him like a child, mesmerized by his strange appearance.

And then he looked her, as if seeing her for the first time. Yellow eyes beheld her in the dim candlelight, the unspoken words within them hidden behind a veil of obscurity. The dark intensity then dimmed, washing away the remnants of his strange gaze.

He then dismissed her presence as he scanned over a sheet of paper with a pen. Placing its inky tip across the manila surface, Erik began to scribble down a few things he'd forgotten. He'd almost finished when he felt Christine looming over his shoulder.

"What is that"" she asked, her eyes slightly inquisitive.

"Something for your lover. He will find you gone, search for you—for he surely will, and realize that trying to murder me was not a wise decision," he said acerbically.

"Oh," she muttered, as if closing the subject. To his surprise, she persisted, "It's a note to make him come here in a blind attempt to rescue me, and then also fall victim to your insidious intrigues."

Erik glared at her. "Don't push me, Christine."

Defying him, she continued, "Raoul would _never_ fall your trickery. He would find a way to rescue me from you, as he did before."

"In case you have forgotten, I _let_ him go," he snapped at her. "Oh, I can kill him anytime I desire, but making him suffer, there lies the truest pleasure." Eyeing her with disdain, he added, "Unless you would rather me kill him and make you watch."

She paused for a moment. "What do you mean by making him suffer?"

"What do I mean? Oh, my sweet, simple, dear Christine, _you_ are actually the one to make him suffer." Watching her desolate expression, he finished his obscure statement. "I think you know what I mean."

Tears threatened to escape her eyes. Refusing to pleasure him with her weakness, she looked away from him, and fell to her knees. "I should have known that you would never care for me. I should have known that my kind angel was truly a malevolent devil…"

Erik stopped writing. Kneeling down beside of her, his hand reached out to hers. For a moment she believed that he was trying to reach out to her, comfort her. When she felt his cold fingers wrap around hers, and then the abrupt wrench upon her ring finger, she realized he was only confiscating her engagement ring. All of the hope for this poorly deformed creature died within her heart, sadly realizing he was nothing more than a soulless monster.

Christine bequeathed a look of unrivaled hatred. "That was mine," she vented through her teeth.

"Yours? I very much doubt that. It looks old, antique." He studied the ring between his slender fingers. "From the sixteenth century, I'd say—if I'm not mistaken."

Brilliant azure eyes revealed forfeit. "You could cut my finger off and send the ring with it. Perhaps he'll realize he should not come…I don't want him to suffer as I have," she uttered in a coarse whisper.

He looked at her with a deep intensity that made her a loss for words. "I would never hurt you, Christine," he whispered into the frigid air, "I would never hurt you, as you have hurt me…"

Before she could speak, Erik placed his hand over her mouth, and fought her fruitless attempts of escape. Pulling a rag filled with an anesthetic from his overcoat, he held it over her mouth. Feeling her go limp, he removed a syringe from the pocket, and imbedded its drugging substance into her bloodstream.

Looking at his work, he finished the final task with a wry grin. Gathering his things, he placed them into the boat and returned to the shore. Christine lay like a limp doll in the soft sand.

Ignoring the terrible ache in his shoulder, he hefted Christine into his arms, and carefully placed her between a set of mouth-eaten cushions and luggage.

Massaging the throbbing wound in his shoulder, he turned his attention to the house, and with a sorrowful expression, sighed. This would be the last time he would ever look upon the tiny house; the world held too much for him to end his life here.

Closing his eyes in subtle timidity, he forced himself to remember all that he had lost—and gained. Looking at the unconscious woman in the boat, he silently smirked. Ah, the sweet and invariable Christine Daaé was his for the taking.

Pity she was only a means to an end.

Erik pushed the boat into the lake, and with a sense of assurance, rowed away from the house, rowed away from the tattered life he had grudgingly renounced, and rowed toward the sweet promise of retribution…

…

**Author's Note: Well, the chapter is a little longer than what I anticipated it to be. Sorry if I bored anyone with my constant prattle. Really, the chapter went into another direction than what I intended. Overall, I'm not dissatisfied with it! Expect more in the coming days—or weeks, if the case may be. **

Guys, thanks again for reviewing! Really, I did not believe people would actually read this! You kind words, thoughts, and criticism mean a lot to me! Thanks!


	3. Chapter Two: Angel of Mercy

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Two.

_The Vienna Railways, Austria_

Soft light poured in through the tiny, single-glass windowpane. The faint scent of dried rosemary lingered through the crisp, cool winter air as heat from the crackling fire gave the cold room little warmth, its dying embers burning out from lack of care. The room remained idle, unused; its occupants busy with their lives outside of its confining space.

Snow was on the grey horizon, the dull overcast foreshadowing a terrible night. Overly dressed women scuttled down the busy streets with parcels from their arduous day of shopping. Men, freshly released from the workhouses and river docks, quickened their pace to return home for a meager supper made by a faithful wife. Children played in the filthy, slushy streets until their overtaxed mothers or caretakers called for them. Life, it seemed, was unending for the busy streets of Paris.

Even though the city's poor cried out for their unending labours, there was a sense of happiness for the honest work placed into their effort. Although the wealthy and nobility would never understand the unending strife the poor endured, they would never reap the benefit of a close-knit family or the simple pleasure of laughing without restraint. The poor, in this measure, were indeed lucky, and far more blessed than the wealthy.

Children could look up to their parents with pride, and not scorn the system of propriety their rich cousins were adept in. While it would be difficult to mature and have a comfortable life, there was still contentment in the poorest of conditions.

One had to make the most of what they had, or else strive to better themselves and possibly lose what they knew as innocent children. It was a shame the latter part was true in so many cases…

But at least it did not affect those who were still so young, so new to the world and its cruelty. A small, budding hope of having a happy life still burned within the minds and hearts of the naïve, especially for those unable to see the dim future as their parents did. That small flame would eventually burn out for most, and leave the rest within the cold, remorseless embrace of the world.

…

The busy streets of Paris were a common sight for those who lived in and out of its expanding sphere. Even tourists were expectant to collide with the city's natives, their manner mostly comprised of confusion and awe.

With its streetlights and various means of illumination, Paris never dulled under Nyx's ebony cloak. Most of its citizens kept a small candle or lantern burning at night, subtly warding away unfriendly eyes. Although Paris held unmatched beauty, it was still dangerous.

Even the more recreational areas held promise of unwanted violence. For those desperate to survive, they would go to extremities to attain enough money or goods to sell for what little profit they could acquire, no matter the consequence to their unsuspecting victims.

For those wise enough to evade such undesired encounters, they would return home before dark, or be in a large company of friends. It was unheard of to stroll through the park at night, especially without a chaperone. Not to mention promenading in a cemetery, where muggers could hide behind cumbersome mausoleums and surprise their unsuspecting prey.

But some took that chance. In their beliefs, it was comforting to visit those who had passed on at night, when the world was still and calm after a day's discord. The cool evening would bring a tranquil atmosphere to the dead, and give an inaudible song to their long, deep sleep.

It was in cemeteries where one could find absolution, and question if there were truly a God and a world beyond this one. But their questions usually went unanswered by the dead and their foreboding silence…

_"You see, my little poppet, death is really not the end; it's the beginning." A man with greying hair and warm brown eyes indicated to a row of gravestones._

_Snow covered most of the markers, leaving an eerie, yet beautiful scene against the winter sun. The dying rays cast ethereal shades of mellow oranges and bright reds against the eroding stones. Instead of emerging as a solitary place of death, the graveyard somehow felt alive, vibrant in its dull appearance._

_Inquisitive eyes gazed at the speaker's benevolent face. "Papa, is my mamma happy? She left us, and is now like these people."_

_Tears almost choked him. His daughter, though sincere, could sometimes wedge a steel stake into his heart. "Yes, my dear," he muttered, the icy wind carrying his bitter words away. "Yes, your mamma is in Heaven—like these good people—with the angels."_

_Shoving away a loose strand of ebony hair, the little girl wrinkled her tiny nose. "Wouldn't Heaven be crowded with so many people?"_

_Something akin to bemusement masked his features. What a question from such a small child! "Well, I don't know, poppet, you have me there." He fought back the incentive to laugh. "I suppose there's enough room for everyone."_

_"Does everyone go to Heaven, Papa?"_

_He looked down at his daughter's innocent face, the flawless ivory skin and bright azure eyes staring up at him with silent reservation. Forcing himself to be honest, he kneeled to where she stood and placed a weary hand upon her tiny shoulder. "No, Christine," he murmured, and pulled a raven lock away from her lovely face. "Not everyone goes to Heaven."_

_Concern pricked her brows. "Why not? I thought you said there was enough room there."_

_Damn. This was difficult to explain to a child, even for one as intelligent as his daughter. But she would have to learn someday, and he wasn't getting any younger… What would she do without him? Sure, she had Mamma Valérius, but she would not be around forever, either. It would be difficult to leave her here without knowing someone would protect her, keep her safe from harm._

_"There is, darling, but sometimes…" he hesitated. "Sometimes people do bad things, and have to go somewhere else."_

_"Where, Papa? Where do they go?" Christine asked, barely keeping the excitement out of her dulcet voice._

_"They go to a place without light and music, a place where darkness is their only friend. You see, Christine, this place is a punishment for the bad things they did in life."_

_"Could they not be forgiven if they were very sorry?"_

_It pained him to look into his daughter's sad eyes. She had a kind heart, even for those who were damned. "Maybe, my child," he said, truly not knowing the answer. "Maybe if they didn't have a chance to prove themselves in life, maybe they could be forgiven. We should pray for them, shouldn't we?"_

_Christine nodded dutifully. "Yes, Papa. Maybe the angels will take them to live in Heaven." She bit her lower lip, her sable brows pinched in concern. "Papa?"_

_"Yes, Christine?"_

_"Will you die, too? Will you leave me to be with Mamma? You said you were going to Heaven when you spoke of Little Lotte when Raoul was here."_

_He looked at her as though she finally drove the metal stake into his aching heart, cleaving it in two. Keeping the tears back, he compelled himself to be truthful. "Yes, one day, eventually… However, I plan to be around for a very long time, Christine."_

_Uncertainty clouded her dusky features, her vibrant eyes dimming from the lack of conviction. "You and Mamma Valérius?" she finally asked._

_Giving an assenting nod, he smiled. "Yes, both me and Mamma Valérius." _

_Christine's uncertainty melted away from the simple acknowledgement. "Will you be there when I grow up to be a famous opera singer? Will you dance with me at my wedding, Papa?"_

_"Yes, yes, I will," he chuckled, pulling his daughter into a tight embrace. _

_"Promise?"_

_"I promise, poppet." Shaking his head in a rueful manner, he continued, "and when you become tired of your poor papa, he will send you the Angel of Music, as he promised. Christine, he will be your guide when I'm gone."_

_"Really, Papa? You promise you won't forget? I don't want to be alone when you leave. Raoul has already done that!" She jutted chin in defiance. "He's a rat, I hope he gets a whipping! …But can I name the Angel anything I want, and keep him forever?"_

_He almost laughed at her innocent question. God forbid she would have the notion to name the Angel of Music something derogatory like _'Mudpuppy'_ or _'Toady._' Shaking aside his amusement, his face lost a fraction of its mirth. "That will be for your Angel to decide, but I'll ask him to consider it."_

_"Thank you, Papa! You're the best papa anyone could ever have!" Christine giggled in childlike delight, and hugged his neck. She heard him emit a faux cough, and teased his polite comedy. "Papa, stop pretending you're sick! You almost had me believing that you were!"_

_"That was the point, poppet! I didn't mean to make you believe I was sick, though. Forgive your poor papa for teasing you."_

_"It's all right, Papa, I forgive you!"_

_Her father considered her with a contented smile, his brown eyes filled with immense love. "Christine, poppet, what am I to do with you?"_

_She considered his question for a moment, and answered, "how about…taking me to the Opera and watching the dancers? I love how they move and act. They remind me of swans…"_

_He laughed at her suggestion. "You will outshine those dancers one day, my child. Your voice, along with your elegance and talent, will be the talk of the town—if not the world. I would be proud to see you grace the stage, and have the world cheer for your beauty and flair. You will be the jewel of Paris, Christine." _

_Something within his tone sounded strange, secretive, as if it held a deeper meaning for what was to come. But to a child it was only words of confusion, words taken lightly and out of trust._

_His face turned serious, like that of a person close to death. He lost the little colour within his pale complexion, his smile melted from the ashen lips. "Christine, hug me and tell me that you love me."_

_"I love you, Papa." Her impish smile faded from noticing the weariness in his face. "Is something wrong, Papa?"_

_"Be a good girl, Christine. Promise me that you'll be happy."_

_With hesitation, she held her tongue. Seeing her father so pale, so weary, troubled her. She was about to question his health, but his sorrowful eyes stopped her. So much regret and guilt lingered within the chocolaty depths that she could not avoid his silent appeal further. "I…promise, Papa. I promise I'll be happy…for you."_

_A weak smile returned to his sallow lips. "That's my girl." He nodded, as if accepting the inevitable. "Wake up, Christine. Wake up."_

_… _

"Papa?" she gasped, feeling as if her soul escaped from its mortal prison.

A cold chill ran down her spine, forcing her to look through blurry eyes, and identify her surroundings. Her throbbing headache did not help matters, or the upset stomach causing her nausea.

Rubbing away the blurred haze from her eyes, she glanced around the room with rigid unease.

The space was smaller than her dressing room at the Opera. Two closed windows were on the adjacent side of the door, which was tiny, and only allowed one person to enter or exit at a time. The walls were paneled in thin mahogany, as was the table in front of her.

She pinched her aching temples with her finger and thumb, as a new wave of exhaustion crashed against her. The seat beneath her felt like a rock, and the claustrophobic space was finally wearing upon her nerves. What was she doing here? Or better yet, where was she?

"Where am I?" she muttered to herself.

"On a train," came a derisive reply.

Her breath stopped short. She knew that voice. By Heaven, this was not a nightmare; this was real. Dreams of him no longer haunted her, not when the actual being was before her, tormenting her.

Bile threatened to erupt from her throat. It was hard enough to accept that she was in the clutches of a lunatic, but to feel the effects of nausea was a little too much. This was indeed Hell.

She refused to look at him; his repulsive mask would further her queasiness. God forbid she see the ugliness behind the façade, she would certainly cast up her accounts.

"I see that you're still suffering from the medication. It will pass in time." His amber eyes stared at her through porcelain slits.

He watched her for a long moment, fully knowing that she was still trying to discern this awkward situation. Waking up from a nightmare, and realizing that she was still in one did not help her bewildered mind. In fact it added more uncertainty and anxiety.

Christine looked disappointed; clear gravity shrouded her pale cheeks. He found himself whispering her name, but failed to acquire her attention. She looked like a Grecian statue carved out of cool white marble, her immortal beauty trapped in the essence of stone.

She was perfect, flawless—flawless where he was not. What made her so virtuous, so saintly? Her external beauty was only an obscurity to hide the ugliness from within. She was not a saint, not when she toyed with his emotions and tried to murder him. To think of it, Christine was no better than he was in that prospect. Well, at least they would burn within the fiery flames of Hell together. It was a fitting irony.

Anger seethed through his veins, forcing him to glare at the pious figure before him. She looked so lost, so helpless, like a little lamb naïvely going to a slaughterhouse. Oh, upsetting her was so tempting, but he was not in the mood to have an argument, and possibly lose his composure.

Impulsively massaging his aching shoulder, he returned his attention to the book in his left hand. Pasteur's ideas on biogenesis and germs were truly interesting, if not plausible. He wholly agreed that life did not come from spontaneous generation, as many had once believed. The scientist even produced flasks of broth, which were untouched, unspoiled from the passing of time. People could still view them in the scientist's institute in Paris.

It was a shame he did not visit the institute before his departure, but they did not a have night tour. Pity.

Reading over the same paragraph for the fourth time, he set it aside and stared at Christine. Her lifeless expression irritated him. He despised the look of desolation on his adversaries. It was so trite, so damned frustrating. "Christine," he said through grated teeth, his tone strangely polite.

She refused to answer.

Enraged by her indifference, he set the book aside and stood from his seat. Biting the hidden portion of his lip, he walked over to her side, and clasped her shoulder. Her dull eyes stared at his pallid hand with apathy. He almost felt a cold sting of ice thrash his hand. God, she was…infuriating.

"Christine, look at me."

She did not obey his terse command.

Enraged, he rounded on her. "Did you believe it all to be a nasty dream? I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but this is reality—here with me—on this train. Surely, you realize that?"

"I don't have to realize anything," she muttered in a quiet response.

His grip on her shoulder hardened like granite. Trying to control the rage teeming inside him, he closed his eyes and considered the girl with her detached words. Either she was foolishly brave or clearly stupid. How could she sit there and be calm when her abductor was on the verge of throttling her? Not that he would—at that moment, anyway.

"Fine. Sit there and stare at the floor until your eyes lose their vision. I'm in no mood to fight with a child."

Returning to the book, Erik stared at the words, their jumbled meanings giving him a migraine. It was not only the annoyance of not being able to read, but the incessant staring the chit gave the floor. Christine was there physically, but not mentally. Her state of mind was far off, grieving for that infernal boy.

Erik almost scoffed at the concept. Ah, yes, the great and magnificent Vicomte de Chagny captivated all with his sense of charm and grace. Girls fawned over his illustrious, fair complexion and boyish appeal. Truthfully, he looked more effeminate than masculine. No wonder his brother coddled him like a sister, Erik mused.

But why in God's name did Christine have to fall into the snare, also? Why could she not focus upon her career, instead of mooning over a boy who would never understand her? Why did women flock to men who did not deserve them? And yet it was the same for the opposite sex, as well.

He glanced at her from the corner of his right eye, her stance unmoving. Christine sat there helpless, and apparently afraid, afraid of what he would do next. He could assure her that he would not beat her like many well-born Frenchmen would. Ah, it was common for noble husbands to beat their wives over the slightest infraction. Whips and physical contact were deemed legal for a husband to use if he thought it necessary to discipline his errant wife.

De Chagny would most likely resort to the same methods later on when his interest with Christine dulled. He would cast her aside and indulge himself with an exotic mistress whose charms could enthrall his sordid passion. His wife would be forgotten, unused, and fall to decay from the wear of time.

Most men did not appreciate what they had. And for that he damned aristocrat and peasant alike. No man—woman—would ever be proved worthy, or even have a sense of humility.

Christine was no better.

Perhaps she and de Chagny deserved each other. Perhaps? It was a certainty. Both would suffer for their betrayal. He would take great pleasure in knowing that he broke the strong de Chagny line, have Christine watch, and be powerless to stop him.

Her sudden possession of words shattered his dark musings. Gone was the listless shadow from her eyes, leaving a burning intensity of edgy inquiry. "Where are we, Erik?" She did not hesitate to use his first name—if that was his true Christian name.

"We are on the west side of Vienna." He gestured to the closed windows. Opening them, he allowed her to gaze out of their foggy panes.

He watched her dull expression fade, and ironically meld into one of mixed wonderment and veneration. "I never believed I would see Imperial City and all its splendour," she admitted, forgetting to whom she was speaking to. "Papa, once told me a wealthy family built grand palaces, lavish concert halls, and luxuriant gardens that never fell to winter's frosty touch. He said that the city was envied by the rest of the Continent."

"The Habsburgs," he informed her with slight alacrity.

"What?"

"The Habsburgs are the family you were speaking of. They subjugated Vienna and protected it for centuries." He paused for a moment. "I'm surprised you know that."

Christine looked at him with opaque hurt. "I am not a fool, Erik. I may not be a comtesse, but I'm not ignorant." She smoothed her wrinkled gown with tense hands.

"You almost were, my dear." The frostiness returned to his voice. "And to think de Chagny will be at a loss for words when he realizes his prospective bride is no where to be found… He'll return to Paris, and find something I left behind."

The hate for her captor returned. To think she would ever have a polite conversation with him after what he did. She was such a fool—stupid, actually. Poor, stupid, pitiful Christine… Her father would be ashamed of her if he knew how weak she was, how much of a failure she turned out to be.

Keeping her temper at a decent level, she gazed into his vicious amber eyes. "How did you manage to manipulate everything to your desire? How did you get that headline in _Le Époque_? How did you do it? At least tell me that."

Erik crossed his arms and sighed with mock anxiety. "If you must know, a friend of mine owed me a favour—a very large one at that. He promised to publish the headline the moment I forfeited a few important items into his custody—mostly a few material things that belonged to you, which you have no need of now.

"The rest was simple. All I had to do was wait for your promised return. Although I was rather incredulous that you would actually keep that fool of a promise."

"I had to," she admitted stiffly. "I see that keeping my promise was in vain."

"Not in vain, my dear," he corrected, "Just naïve and reckless. Although I do applaud you for your conscious efforts upon my behalf, truly they assure me that you do have guilt harboured somewhere in that corrupted mind."

"I'm not the only one who's corrupted." She muttered under her breath. Before he could add a rejoinder to her remark, she concluded, "What do you plan to do with me and Raoul? What's this perverse game you've constructed?"

"A game?" he questioned, revealing slight amusement. "Oh, yes, this is very much a game, where you and your lover are the pawns, and I, the player manipulating you. Doesn't it feel nice to have someone intervening upon your life, Christine? Doesn't it soothe you to know that you no longer have control of your pitiful actions?"

He spoke as if from experience. The grave words played upon her like a solemn melody used for an elegy. "Please, be direct, I've never enjoyed your metaphors or hidden meanings. For once tell me what you have in mind."

He waved her plea aside with a careless hand. "It's simple, really. I convince the world to believe that I'm dead; you come to my corpse in a hopes to bury me; I abduct you and leave a little note—attached with that accursed ring—in your dressing room, de Chagny will find it and realize that it was wasn't wise to anger me…" He smiled at her gaping expression. Christine's visible shock was truly amusing.

She stood where she was, inert from her harsh comprehension of Erik's devious notions of vengeance. The severe knowledge rocked her state of mind to the brink of insanity. She was his pawn, his captive to torture. And with that silent omission, Christine Daaé knew the meaning of true defeat.

"How…how can you be so cruel?" she asked, tears threatening to escape her shaded eyes.

"Cruel?" he mocked her with cold disdain. "I have not even begun to be cruel, Christine. This is merely a prelude to my grand _symphony_." His eyes glared at her with unmatched indignation. "I shall take you away from Heaven, and drag you to Hell with me."

Forcing back the tears, which threatened to spill from her eyes, she focused upon what to say next. The only thing she could—would—say that held any effect was her undying hatred for his callous actions, for his corrupted soul. "I…hate you." She glowered at him with palpable revulsion.

"Trust me, my dear, the feeling is mutual." His unnatural eyes were icy, devoid of concern.

He almost continued with another callous riposte, but sharp pains in his shoulder hindered him from doing anything, except concentrate on the injury and bite his lip in a weak attempt to alleviate the pain.

Christine watched her captor stare at the floor and quietly massage his shoulder. She sensed pain coursing through him, and he, trying to mask it from her. Good God, what was wrong with him? The ashen skin on his throat was paler now; a soft layer of sweat appeared upon it, and his eyes were…less daunting, as if the austere cloud vanished from the intermittent irises.

He did not appear as a hideous creature from the darkness, only a man trying to veil his weakness, and that almost made her pity him. Even though she hated him for what he did, she could not find it in herself to take pleasure in his pain—she was not that cruel.

Finding her voice, she asked, "Your shoulder, what is wrong with it?"

Erik glared at her with his remaining strength. "Nothing," he said harshly. "Leave me alone, Christine."

His threat should have stopped her from further questioning, but it didn't; it only increased her concern. "I'm not going to 'leave you alone,' Erik. Not when you're in pain. Now tell me what's wrong."

"If you're so concerned about me, then you'll stop your inquiry and leave me be. I'm in no mood to argue with you."

"Nor am I, but I'm not going to let you sit there and be in pain, not when I can do something to help—"

"Take me in like a wounded animal, is that it?" he asked with dull sarcasm. "I…_don't_…need your help."

Christine shook her head in frustration. Really, this man was insufferable. How could he not accept her help when he needed it? One word surged through her mind: Pride. Yes, the man was prideful, not to mention stubborn. But weren't all men like that? Even Raoul had a sense of pride, which usually clouded his good judgment; Erik was not exempt of that horrible truth, he was an arrogant male, too.

"All right," she conceded, returning to her seat. "Fine. You're the epitome of perfect health. You have no flaws, no weaknesses, and you're sitting there like that in a wondrous attempt to frighten me."

Erik glowered at her with spite. "I do not appreciate your cynicism, _dear_."

An unladylike snort escaped her. "Really? Then why don't you come over here and lecture me? In fact, I'm in much need of a whipping, or throttling, whichever you prefer."

"Tempting," he muttered. "Very tempting. But I am in no mood to take you up on that sweet offer. Now please stop harping and be quiet for once."

She had to bite her tongue to keep herself from laughing. They were arguing, and she was on the verge of actual delight. The irony of it was priceless. Never had she felt so much ease, so much comfort in his intimidating presence. The infamous Phantom revealed a sense of imperfect humanity, and that made her smile.

Erik must have sensed her amusement, because he growled at her jovial expression. He removed his hat and massaged his temples in a poor attempt to prevent an impending migraine. Staring at her through the mask's eye slits, he wondered how she could find her situation so god-awful humourous. If anything it was far from being droll.

Perhaps it was because she knew he was in pain, but then why would she sound so bloody concerned? Why would she further her interrogation when he threatened her? Why would she even care?

The myriad of questions flooded his mind with uncertainty. No matter. He would think upon it later when the incessant migraine decided to depart from his troubled mind.

Leaning over the table, he felt the headache lessen, and for a moment believed that his pain would recede, but a sharp spasm dismissed his naivety. Biting his lip, he forced himself not cry out—in front of Christine. He refused to reveal his weakness to her.

Christine noticed his diluted state, and without thinking ran to his side. "Erik!" she gasped. "Erik, please, you need to sit down."

She heaved his fatigued form against her shoulder and eased him onto his seat. She frowned from the dead weight he imparted on her, knowing that he was truly ill. Sharp, staggering breaths escaped him, his eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Erik's face was wan now, his crooked lips trembling from the unrelenting pain.

Her heart ached from the sight. Even though she was supposed to hate this man, she found she could not. How could she when he looked so weak, so helpless? Perhaps she was wrong about him. Perhaps he was not the heartless bastard her mind had painted him as.

Perspiration saturated the few remaining strands of his hair, making him look like a feeble child. She mindlessly wiped the saltine droplets away from his scalp with her right palm. Watching him tremble, she leaned over him and gazed into his inhuman eyes. It was then she noticed that the feral gleam had vanished, and in its place was insurmountable despair. Despair, which tortured her soul.

She noticed his left hand clutching his shoulder. Was this the root of his pain? Was there something he concealed, kept hidden from her? Instinctively, she ignored his groans of detest and carefully removed his heavy cloak and overcoat. Pulling away the soft linen of his undershirt, she examined his shoulder; bloody gauzes obscured her inspection, clarifying her worst fear.

Shaking the thought aside, she removed his black waistcoat and white undershirt. "Christine," he muttered weakly.

"Shh, Erik. Don't say anything." Her hands moved deftly over the exposed flesh, and then carefully removed the gauze. She closed her eyes from the sight, her silent denial proven false. Why, oh, God, why?

A wound, slightly healed by the poor medical attention had festered, leaving an infectious coat over it. Dark strands of red and purple surrounded the lesion, a telltale sign of bad infection. Her index finger slightly traced over the obscene marks, silently noting this injury was related with his accusation.

She felt her spirit break. Erik was not lying about his attempted murder. Why would he, especially when he promised not to interfere with their lives? Instinctively, she knew he would keep his word, but somehow something—or someone—came between his promises, which compelled him to retaliate against them.

The bullet wound looked angry, and she knew it must have caused him a great deal of pain to dig the bullet out. Poor Erik, no wonder he blamed her for everything, but why? Who could do this to him? Who could find it in their heart to murder him without concern? She would never betray him in that manner, but someone did. She refused to believe the theory forming in the back of her mind. No, she would not consider it. Ever.

However, his inability gave her an advantage. Very soon the train would stop for an exchange of passengers, and she would be enabled to leave without worry of his pursuit. It was a perfect plan, but there was one small problem: She could not leave him like this, not when he was so vulnerable.

Making her decision, she settled herself beside him, and wiped away another foray of sweat. She carefully pulled his dark hair away from the mask, and faintly smiled. Under the cold façade his face was indeed appealing, she reflected bemusedly. It was a pity Fate decided to mar it with such a horrid deformity. Without it, she did not doubt that he would be one of the most sought after males in Europe—possibly the world.

But now was not the time to think on that, she needed to find a doctor. She stared into his helpless eyes once more, and felt the growing pity for this poor creature inundate her soul.

Her left hand touched his porcelain mask, her fingers gracing its cool edge. She knew what lay beyond the façade, knew that she would recoil in disgust from the sight, and yet felt compelled to pull the obscurity away and stare into the face of her captor. Her hand tightened around the mask's edge, prepared to remove it from his face.

She stopped.

Her hand loosened its grip on the delicate porcelain as a pair of pleading amber eyes stared into hers. Without words, the feral orbs begged her not to remove the ceramic obstruction. Even ill, the Phantom wished to hide his face from her and the rest of the world. But in truth, he was not a phantom, he was just…Erik, a normal man with a ghastly countenance. She could not condemn him for his cursed features, not even when he had made her life hell.

"Erik," she whispered quietly, wiping his sweaty forehead. "I will be right back. Rest until I return."

He lifted a limp hand in silent objection, but was too weak to voice his opinion. Closing her eyes, Christine grasped his icy hands. "I will not leave you alone, I promise I _will_ return."

She felt his unsteady breathing subside, as his luminous eyes closed. Her brows furrowed from the disquieting sight. Erik had passed out, and here she was tending him—her abductor—with true worry. Raoul would be irate if he knew…

She would think about her fiancé's reaction later. Erik needed a doctor before his wound worsened and set up blood poisoning. She would not be responsible for his death—not a second time. With new ambition, she stood from the seat and walked to the door.

Looking back at Erik's prone form, she frowned. He looked so fragile. What happened to the man who struck fear in the hearts of the arrogant and weak-minded? Whoever did this to him would pay for their cruelty, on that she vowed.

…

Tourists and prospective businessmen infested the locomotive's public rooms. It was impossible to navigate through the dense crowd, especially when most of them decided to associate with other passengers.

Christine excused herself through the congested room of bodies. She briefly scanned the crowd, and noticed that female company was scarce. Numerous languages collided and melded together in an impenetrable cacophony of confusion. Out of the mumbled jargon, she could not hear her native Swedish. Broken pieces of German and English dominated the various conversations, leaving one to imagine what they were about.

She kneaded her sensitive temples, feeling a slight headache. How in God's name was she going to find a doctor in this disheveled room? Erik was alone, suffering from a dangerous infection, and here she was, in the midst of people who could not help her. It was a shame she was not fluent in other languages—mainly English.

Biting her lip, she decided to at least try to find aid. "I need a doctor!" she shouted across the room. The room quieted from her sudden outburst, all eyes on her. She felt their probing gaze upon her, their expressions blank.

It's just like an audience waiting for you to perform, she thought. It was best to play the part than run from the stage. Gathering her courage, she spoke again. "I need a doctor. Can anyone help me?"

"I'm a doctor!" a burly man laughed in broken French. "Would you like me to examine you?" he asked, as a crowd joined in on the laughter.

Christine held her hand over her mouth. How could people be so…so disrespectful, not to mention uncouth? She felt as if the entire world were laughing at her, teasing her desperation.

Feeling the need to escape their cruelty, she turned away from the crowd, but not before hearing her rude addresser finish, "See, gentlemen, French ladies are all skirt and nothing underneath!"

Humiliation racked her with angered sobs. She refused to cry in front of them, but could not find it in herself to hold back the tears. It was pointless to go back in there and find someone. Even if she were to find a physician, they could easily decline their services. Erik would die if she didn't do something—but she was not a physician, either.

She leaned against the paneled wall and closed her eyes. This was a nightmare, all of it. Oh, how she wished her papa were here, or Raoul and his comforting assurances. But neither were here, would never be. It was a harsh fact she had to face.

"Excuse me, _mademoiselle_?" a voice asked, breaking her thoughts.

She looked warily at her anonymous addresser. "_Oui, monsieur_?"

Kind grey eyes shielded behind thick spectacles lightened from the tired acknowledgement. "I apologize for their rudeness to you. But you said you needed a doctor?"

Christine examined the man in front of her. The boyish guise expressed him to be no more than twenty-five, his chestnut hair cropped short, framing his oval face. There was a small scar on his lower lip, obviously from a childhood accident. His common attire comforted her in many ways. At least he was not another haughty noble wanting to get his rocks off by degrading her. In some ways he reminded her of Raoul—well, his manner, anyway.

"Yes, I need a doctor."

A dark brow questioned her. "All right, what's the problem?" He paused for a moment, smiling boyishly. "Oh, and forgive me if my French is a little rusty, it's been years since I studied the language."

"You speak it quite well!" She found herself laugh. Her face turned serious after a moment. "The problem has naught to do with me, but a friend of mind, actually."

The young man nodded compliantly. "An illness or injury?"

"Injury, _monsieur_, I fear that infection has already set up in the wound, and…" she could not finish.

"No need to go into detail," he assured her. "I'm sure once that I look at it, I can help your friend. I'm sorry if I don't look like a doctor, but I'm qualified!" He chuckled.

Relief eased her frown. "Thank you so much for helping me. I appreciate it."

"Thank me when I help your friend. All I need is my medicine bag, and I'll be at your stateroom. Which one are you in?"

Christine pursed her brows together. "I don't exactly know, I didn't check the number when I left it. It's close to…the dining car, that's all I know."

She heard him whistle through his teeth. "I was wondering who occupied that room. No one ever comes out of it for anything. I figured it belonged to a conceited lord or something, not a pretty lady such as yourself!"

She had the grace to blush. "Thank you,_ monsieur_. I…I…thank you."

The young man stared at her with a lopsided grin and composed himself. "I'm sorry, it's just that I don't see very many ladies where I'm from, and when I do they're usually busy powdering their noses or fixing their corsets." He flushed from her widened gaze. "Sorry, I forgot my place."

"It is fine. I am glad to meet a man who does not follow Society's rules. Where does such a man come from?"

"America, where else?" He smirked. "I suppose you're going to back away now, and run for your life. That rumour about my countrymen carrying lice is true, you know!"

Christine chortled at his joke. "I'm sure not all of them carry lice!"

"Well, I don't. At least I don't believe I do." He had the audacity to scratch his head. "Oh, and before I forget, my name is Nicolai Kapterva. I know it sounds Russian, but my parents immigrated to America before I was born."

That would explain his strange accent, a melded inflection of two diverse regions. "And I am Christine Daaé," she added with a curtsy. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine." He placed a light kiss across her knuckles. "Now, I'm going get my bag and see to your friend. Return to your room, _mademoiselle_, and do not worry about the infection—it will be vanquished when I'm through with it!"

Christine faintly smiled at the young man's retreating figure. It was a wonder that the world still had a few decent people in it. She was damned lucky to have found him when she did. If not, Erik would suffer from her amateur attempts, which would most likely result in failure.

Quickening her pace, she quietly returned to the large stateroom. Finding Erik in the same position, she placed a cool palm to his forehead. Damn. He had a fever. Chills also racked his weakened form. The infection was worse than she thought. Hopefully Nicolai would be able to treat him without worry of blood poisoning.

She quickly found a makeshift washcloth, and applied it to his forehead. It was tempting to remove the mask and place the cool cloth against all of his skin, but reason stopped her. Nicolai—along with so many others—would probably not understand his deformity, even doctors had an aversion to the unknown aspects of the human body.

"Hold on, Erik," Christine whispered softly, adjusting him to lie on his side. "I'm going to help you."

Waiting for Nicolai unnerved her. He would hopefully hurry and be here before another moment passed. Hearing a soft knock at the door, her frown melted into a slight smile.

Gentle grey eyes regarded her. "I'm sorry for taking longer than I expected; the crowd, you know."

Christine stood from Erik's side. "This is my friend. I believe his injury is a gunshot wound."

Nicolai looked at her then to Erik. Frowning, he examined the exposed flesh around the wound. "Yes, his wound is certainly caused by a bullet." He looked up to her. "Is it still in there?"

"No," Christine found herself say. "At least I don't believe it is."

"I don't feel anything," he muttered under his breath. "However, there is a pocket of infection that's been festering here for quite some time." Wiping a smear from his spectacles, he asked, "Do you know how long he's had this?"

"No, I only realized something was wrong with him an hour ago. I'd noticed he'd massage his shoulder, but I did not believe he was suffering this much."

"It's something all males do, Christine." He favoured her with a smile. "Pride is a terrible issue we have. It appears your friend is no better than the rest of us."

"Nicolai, can you help him?" Worry pinched her brow.

He exhaled and stared at the angry laceration. "I'll need to lance it, first. Then I'll stitch the skin back together." His hand touched hers. "It may make you ill from the sight. A lady should not be here." He grimaced from the blunt explanation. "I'm sorry that I cannot be more vague on the details. I fear it's a terrible trait I have."

"No, I'm glad you're upfront with the truth, but I'll do anything as long as it will help Erik."

"Erik, eh?" A teasing smile graced his lips. "Well, I will be right back, I have to heat a knife so it will puncture the wound without worry of spreading more infection." He looked at her earnestly. "He'll be all right when I get the corruption out. I don't believe it has set up blood poisoning yet, but it will if I don't do something soon."

Christine squeezed his hand and mouthed her appreciation. "I'll be waiting here."

Her eyes focused upon Erik once more. She carefully smoothed his damp hair back, playing with the small tendrils. "Oh, Erik," she murmured within earshot. "Please, please forgive me. I was so blind that I did not see you were telling the truth, or the pain you were in. I never wanted this for you. I only wanted to forget about everything after we departed…

"I wanted to move on and live with Raoul in this child's dream I had. I never expected anything different than that—until you pulled me out of my reverie, and made me see that life is not so promising; you made me see reality. And now I am here—with you—on this train." she teased. "You should laugh at your 'sweet, simple, dear Christine'…"

She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Erik, you had better not die, or so help me, I'll drag your soul out of Hell and make you sorry for disrupting my life! You're too stubborn, too arrogant to allow a simple infection get the better of you." Receiving no answer, she continued without thinking, "I'll stop singing—for ever. You would not want your precious lessons and time to be wasted, would you?" Her hands held his. "Erik, come back to me. Please."

Nicolai's sudden appearance stopped her from berating Erik with more viable threats. Revealing a steaming knife, he smiled and moved to Erik's bare shoulder. "I'm going to clean the surrounding area with antiseptic, then I'll lance it." He handed her the knife. "Be sure not to touch the edge, it's very hot."

Christine held the knife like a piece of precious porcelain. She watched as Nicolai cleansed the discoloured flesh with a strange, clear liquid. Handing him the knife, she observed his careful examination of the skin before driving the oppressive blade into the corrupted flesh, cauterizing it.

Biting the base of her lip, Christine observed Nicolai's precision and dexterity. God, he was good with his hands. Like a pianist, he moved over the flesh with meticulous caution, attending the wound with the greatest of care.

But with all his good efforts, he frowned at the wound. Shaking his head, he glanced at her with concern. "I fear that there may be a chance infection will set up again—if not attended, but that can be remedied with keeping it clean and using antiseptic… But, I'll still need to stitch it…"

"I know," she finished for him. "Let me do it, though."

Nicolai opened his mouth to object, but Christine shook her head. "I will not have it any other way. I _want_ to, Nicolai…" she looked at Erik with remorse. "I owe him that much."

Wondering what she meant by the remark, he kept his questions to himself, finding it best not to ask. Nodding with abject hesitation, he allowed her to move over Erik's wound. "Christine, you'll need to sanitize the needle before you do this," he handed a fresh cloth filled with antiseptic.

Christine took it gingerly and wiped its metal point. Grimacing from the awful task before her, she looked at him for more instruction. "What now?"

"You need to bind the skin as close as you can. Christine." He grasped her wrist. "I can do this if you don't want to…"

She smiled at his kind offer, but mutely declined. "I need to do this. I don't have a problem with it, Nicolai." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'm quite a seamstress!"

With a reserved sigh, he stepped away from Christine, and watched her examine the injured flesh. She hesitated only a moment before she placed the needle against Erik's wound, carefully stitching it. She observed her work, and sighed. "Do you think that will hold?"

"I could not have done a better job myself! _Mademoiselle_, you astound me!" Taking her hands in his, he asked, "Would you like to be an assistant? I could use a steady hand!"

She grinned. "That was…something I never imagined doing." She looked at him with uncertainty. "I hope I don't have to ever again… I was afraid I would do something wrong."

This time he laughed. "I very much doubt that! You are quite good with a needle! But, you will have to keep a close watch on it, and be sure to cleanse it, and apply new bandages at least three to four times a day. I would not hesitate to leave old bindings on there for fear of more contagion." He gave her a quick smile of reassurance. "I'll show you how to cleanse it and bandage it properly.

"I also suggest that he stays relaxed, and is careful about moving his right shoulder. Tell him to stay still, if possible, but I doubt he'll listen—most men don't."

"Thank you, Nicolai. Thank you so much for helping Erik. We both appreciate your aid."

Nicolai stared at the peaceful figure, and felt a stab of envy. This man was truly lucky to have such a beautiful, concerned friend—lady—watching over him. He did not wish to inquire about the mask or what lay beneath it, knowing that many returned from wars scarred or were deformed from birth. Whoever he was, he was certainly blessed to have a lady like Christine. If she wasn't so fixated on the masked patient, he would further his introduction with her. But somehow he doubted he would get very far. There was something between them, something so deep that he could never penetrate it—not even with a lance.

"Christine, I'm going to leave you enough gauze and antiseptic to last until he no longer needs it. I'm sorry to say that the train's next stop is where I get off. I'm going to attend village patients near the Austrian-Prussian border." He gave her a languid smile. "If you ever need a doctor, and you're in the area…"

"I'll be sure to call on you, Nicolai! Thank you again for what you've done."

Nicolai shook his head. "No, I don't want your thanks, it was a pleasure to help you and your friend, but more of a pleasure of meeting such a wonderful lady." He placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead. "That's all the pay I require, Christine." He clasped her tiny hands. "God be with you and your friend. _Au revoir, mademoiselle_."

Christine bid a heartfelt goodbye to the young doctor. Truly he was going to make a lucky girl a wonderful husband one day, not to mention an excellent doctor. Her thoughts turned to the man behind her. Bending down, she placed a cool cloth to his cheek. "Erik," she whispered softly. "Erik, I'm here."

But he did not answer her. Only the gentle sound of his breathing eased her troubled mind, and kept her from shedding regretful tears…

…

A dull ache encompassed his mind. With a sigh of hesitation, he opened his hazy eyes and stared into the darkness. Hollow moonlight streamed in through the window, allowing soft illumination into the room. The room's only other resource of light was a small flickering candle on the table.

He gazed into its burning depths, as if mesmerized by its fiery glow. It calmed him for a moment, and then the unending foray of questions plagued his mind. It was not only the question of being in this position, but also knowing that his shoulder was somewhat healed, the infection gone.

Erik knew he did not have the means to successfully remove the bullet without any worry of infection. He knew the chance he was taking by not seeking medical help, but how could he when his thoughts were focused upon revenge instead of surviving?

Years of living under the Opera had clearly slowed his vigilance and survival instincts. Not only that, but also the constant need to take vengeance against Christine and the vicomte. His mind was plagued with notions of multiple torture methods, Christine's cries, and the vicomte's final breath was all that concerned him at the moment. He was a fool not to think of his health, and the ability to enjoy his retribution.

He berated himself for being so reckless. Twenty years ago he would not have been so careless, he would have reassessed the situation and considered all of the possibilities. Perhaps he was getting old, too old to think properly. His haste in such precarious matters would certainly be the end of him.

Not more mistakes, he promised. No, not when he was so close to achieving his goal. He would be damned if he faltered now.

With that in mind, he moved his attention away from the candle and to the figure next to him. His acute vision made out the languid form. Christine. Erik leered from the sight of her. With her frozen stance, inert eyes, and supple lips partially opened, she personified a statue of a resting angel; her grave features marked the pious veneer of heavenly bodies. It was a shame her looks were merely a deceitful tactic.

But her sanctimonious appearance was not the only thing that troubled him; her tiny hands were ironically clasped around his. He automatically felt the urge to cast them away, feeling her disease seep through his pores. God, why was she even touching him?

Why would she dare touch a monster—willingly? Better yet, what compelled her to stay? Christine had the perfect opportunity to escape him when he fainted—the train's stops were frequent enough.

He knew that she somehow managed to draw the infection out of his wound, and properly bandage him, but why? Why would she care? Did he not abduct her; cause her to lose everything? Did she not even hate him for it?

His mind raced with endless possibilities, and by Heaven, he would get the answer out of her. How could she presume to sentence his execution, and then play an angel of mercy? He almost balked at the concept. Christine was far from merciful, and she would regret playing duel roles. Oh, yes, he would make her rue her irrational decision of staying with him—he would see to it.

Erik stared at her peaceful expression, feeling it necessary to disturb her. His hands adroitly wrapped around her wrists and placed enough pressure to wake her from her sweet reverie.

Christine's eyes opened, revealing momentary shock. "What?" she gasped under her breath, realizing it was only her belligerent patient. "Oh," she exhaled, slightly relieved. "You're awake. Are you feeling better?"

Erik read the concern within her eyes, the azure depths expressing true worry. No, he thought skeptically. No, it was merely a trick of the light, or just her devious design to manipulate him.

And then she smiled, smiled like a small child eyeing a piece of hard candy. And what a sweet-tooth Christine had. He rolled his eyes from the sugary deception. God, it would be better if she bare her hatred and left him to die. This hollow portrayal of compassion was enough to drive him mad, and he was damn well close to the edge.

Forcing the nascent fury aside, he gave her a crooked smile. "Ah, Christine, why wouldn't I be?"

He watched the light fade from her eyes. "Erik, why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That I was shot by your hired assassin?" he inquired, his voice filled with deep contempt. "It would be unwise to reveal a weakness to your adversary, would it not?"

Shaking her head, she eyed him with reservation. "Why didn't you go to a doctor, Erik? They could have helped you."

"And who could I go to, Christine?" His grip around her wrists tightened. "In case you have forgotten, my face is not the most pleasant thing to see."

Christine tried to wrench her wrists free from his cold grip, but found that he refused to release her. Even ill, Erik possessed unnatural strength. "Let me go," she murmured in a meek voice. "Please…you're hurting my wrists."

"I think not, dear. Not until you tell me what the hell you're up to. If it's some Machiavellian notion you've conceived, then you'll sadly regret ever considering it," he threatened, his hideous eyes fixed on her. "I will not hesitate to make you realize that."

Christine stared at him with impending dread. "What are you talking about?"

"Christine, I have dealt with better liars." He glared at her. "Why did you stay when you had the chance to leave? Considering how much you despise me, I would think you would be praising your God for such providence!"

She looked at him as if he had stabbed her with a dull knife. How could he say that after what she did for him, what she sacrificed for him? Maybe he was right. Maybe she should have left him to die, while she returned to Raoul. She was a fool to believe he would be anything other than the heartless wretch he portrayed.

"I'm waiting," he said icily.

His cold statement strengthened her reserve. Well, at least she would not make the same mistake and pity a man who deserved to die. "I stayed, because I pitied you! I stayed, believing that I could help you, and then assist you in finding out who did this to you." She forced the tears back. "I stayed, because I ca—" She caught herself before saying something she would regret.

Erik did not miss her abrupt silence. She was about to reveal something, something important, something she did not want him to know. Finding it best not to probe further, he quickly dismissed the subject. "Either way, it does not matter." He eyed her warily. "If you're telling the truth, which I very much doubt, my plans will remain unchanged—both of you will still suffer."

Christine stared at him with disbelief, the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. "Years of distrusting people have clearly clouded your judgment. You cannot see those who are not evil; you damn them as well," she said with remote irony.

He watched her turn away from him, displaying hurt and dejection. Perhaps she was not lying; perhaps she was honest. Feeling the sudden urge to hold her attention, he gently released her lifeless hands. "Christine, I—"

Before he could finish, the room felt as if it slid on its axis, propelling loose objects. Erik felt Christine collide against his chest. Reading her frightened eyes, he impulsively pulled her against him.

"Erik, what is happening?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"Christine, hold on to me!" He pulled her tightly against him. "The train is off its tracks."

Erik noticed Christine tighten her arms around his chest, feeling her erratic breathing tease his neck. He watched helplessly as everything moved to the falling side, and braced himself against the seat.

The next few moments would be a blur to him in the following days, but the force of being tossed to the floor would not. He felt Christine leave his arms as the unexpected force wrenched her away from him.

His face collided against the wooden floor, feeling the porcelain mask ram into his cheekbone. He listened, powerlessly to the twisting of metal, and then the sound of the train's jerking halt as it screeched against the broken tracks. This was going to be a terrible accident with many casualties…

He felt the train fall from the tracks, and for a tense moment, knew that they were going to die. Closing his eyes for the impending collision, he waited for the final moment before death. A frown crossed his masked features. For so long he cheated death, laughed at it, laughed at the irony of his pathetic life. A few weeks ago he would have gladly given up to his adversary, but Fate intervened once more, giving him the initiative to continue living and find a true meaning to his life. This meaning would not be dying on a train. No, he would move on and take what was his.

Fate was not finished with him.

He finally felt the train crash against a surface, stopping it from its maddening descent. Opening his eyes, he noticed the room teeter and lean against the sound of a cracking surface. Before his mind could register what the train collided against, water poured through the shattered windows.

Damn. The train's fall was broken by a frozen lake, which was inevitably collapsing under the bulk's massive weight. Very soon the room, and many others, would be at the mercy of frigid temperatures and the threat of sinking into unknown depths.

There was only one chance to survive and that had to be taken immediately. Erik pulled away from the floor and balanced himself against its slanted surface. He eyed the room with dread—the only exit blocked by another train-car, which was filling with icy water.

Biting the edge of his cracked lip, he glimpsed at the windows, noticing that one was not buried in the chilling water. Nodding at the possible escape route, he eased his way to its cracked panes. It would be difficult to get out, but not impossible.

Assurance crossed his features, before fading into worry. Where was Christine? He had almost forgotten her. Mentally berating himself, he called out to her. His eyes searched franticly within the darkened room. Before he could call her name again, he noticed a small figure submerged in a deep pool of icy water.

She was floating near the broken windows, the harsh suction threatening to pull her into the lake's watery depths. He could not allow that to happen, could not allow losing her when she stayed by his side and willed him to live. Damn him for being so arrogant. Even if she helped orchestrate his death, she did not deserve dying in a frozen lake.

Carefully descending into the icy waters, he made his way to her prone form. His hand retrieved hers before she fell at the mercy of the suction. "Come on, Christine," he bit out her name through chattering teeth. Seeing that she did not comprehend his words, he pulled her over his shoulder, wincing from pain of the impact.

Breaking the cracked glass with a broken table leg, Erik forced Christine out of the window before following her. With sharp, unsteady breaths, he glanced at the wreckage with dismay. God only knew how many lost their lives from the impact, not to mention dying by hypothermic temperatures.

His chilled hands reached for Christine's flaccid form. He stared at her with growing dismay, her face wan; lips colourless. She trembled under his icy touch. He flinched from the painful gasp as his arm surrounded her. He eyed her with worry; her drenched clothing would be the death of her.

"Christine," Erik muttered under his breath, pulling the sodden dress away from her. "Do not complain about propriety…"

He worked carefully around her frozen flesh. His hands moved skillfully over Christine's shoulders, pulling the wet fabric from them. Removing everything but her chemise, Erik stared at the frigid beauty before him.

Once, long ago, he had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of loving her with an ardent passion that derived from the bowels of his soul. She was everything he envisioned; her flawless ivory skin, gentle feminine curves, even the fall of her hair against her shoulders. She was Aphrodite-incarnate, the muse of his music. God, why did she have to be so perfect, so damned beautiful?

His breathing staggered from the sight. This was no time to imagine trivial fantasies. No, he had to save her, pull her away from Death's soothing embrace. Christine was important to him, but in a different way. She would be the instrument of the vicomte's destruction. Yes, even if she were truly innocent, he would not return her out of the goodness of his soul. No, he would give true paradise for her innocence—without the vicomte. But if she were indeed guilty, he would make her life a living hell…just like his…

Erik pulled the damp cloak away from his shoulders and wrapped it around her chilled form. Adjusting his cracked mask, he carefully hefted Christine over his good shoulder and carried her over the frozen ice.

He surveyed the wreckage, noticing that they were the only passengers on the frozen lake. Surely others had survived the incident. God help those who didn't. Of course, who was to say 'God' had anything to do with it? he mused. He would burn in Hell for his sacrilegious reflections, but Devine Intervention had not interrupted his life as of late. Perhaps God had forgotten the poor, misshapen creature that everyone abhorred.

It did not matter. He would resume his life and defy the traitorous stars that directed his life. A small village lay within the distance. From there he would plan his next move. The train incident was not on his agenda, nor was the unexpected sympathy from his captive.

His plans were in shambles. He would have to prevent future disasters, and be on guard. There would be no more mistakes; he had to see this through, even if it killed him…

Such was the price of revenge…

…

**Author's Notes: For those of you who skimmed through the chapter, or quit after the first few paragraphs, I don't blame you! I know the chapter was tedious and _very _dull, and I apologise that I could not make it more interesting. I gutted this chapter and re-edited it until I almost deleted it all together. I cannot for the life of me write action scenes. It's easier to write a dialogue or characters' emotions, but I could not just say '…and then the train wrecked…' I wished I could have, though! It would have been so much easier! LOL! **

**Also, if the information about the train was incorrect, please disregard it. I have a vague idea about trains—especially ones from the late nineteenth century. So, the terminology and descriptions may be off a bit. And…also anything else that's not correct in the timeline. I never imagined writing something historical and holding to the truth would be so difficult! But it is a challenge for me! **

**But now onto serious matters… After much thought and deliberation, I have decided to focus only on Christine and Erik at the moment. There are two sides to every story—if not more—and I want to write only one side at this time. Jumping between settings is something I try to avoid, if possible. It somehow gets me off track and leaves me to scramble for new material. After I have this fic in the direction it should be going—or maybe before that—I want to write Raoul's version of the story. However I am _not_ leaving the vicomte out entirely! He's merely sitting on the sidelines at the moment! I wished I could, but I can't have two sides happening at once without disrupting the story… It truly pains me to make this decision… (**

**Thanks again for the wonderful reviews!**


	4. Chapter Three: An Unbreakable Vow

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Three.

_Upper Silesian Border, Russia_

Tired azure eyes languidly opened, seeing nothing but a dense room filled with inactive shadows. A staggered breath escaped her as she inwardly shuddered. Out of all settings, a dark, confined space was the worst place to be in…

The impenetrable darkness surrounded her, forbidding her to escape its menacing embrace. She tried to scream, but her voice could not register the despair quaking behind it. Her eyes closed against the nameless adversary, silently grasping the harsh fact that no one would hear her, or even care enough to come to her aid.

It was the darkness, which pursued her, hunted her. And unfortunately, there was no escape from it. Since childhood, the same dream—or rather nightmare—would always come to frighten her. The bittersweet memory of her father's dying embrace, then the cold funeral-march to the cemetery—which few attended—lingered within her troubled mind.

She could remember the event perfectly. The day was cold, bitter. Rain swept across the countryside, drenching those who dared to stand against its fury. Dark-grey storm clouds loomed over the countryside with an ominous intensity, obscuring the tranquility of the heavens. No peace could be found on such a dismal and traumatic day. There would be no comfort, no kind assurances to ease the pain.

Her father's death was inevitable; she knew that. But for them to part so soon, so unexpectedly was not fair. Out of anger and despair she questioned God, and why he had to take her beloved papa away from her. Did her Heavenly Father not realize that she would be left alone in the world? And yet, she was alone now, wasn't she?

Over time she grew less spiteful about her father's death, no longer blaming God or any other divine being. How could she when everyone had an appointment with Death? Perhaps the Angel of Music would soothe her broken spirit—if he ever decided to appear.

And for years she waited, waited patiently until her angel found the time to arrive to her aid. But her burning hope for his expected arrival was dimming. The Angel of Music was beginning to become more of a child's fanciful tale than an adult's reality. By eighteen, she dismissed the thought altogether. It was not until joining the Paris Opéra that her childish notions had finally come to haunt her.

She was foolish to place her faith so blindly into the hands of an invisible voice—a madman. How could she believe that a heavenly entity would be there, just for her? Angels did not have time for mortals, especially when it concerned selfish individuals who only desired comfort and material possessions. And oh, how she wanted to be a known figure in the world of opera. It was probably one of the worst things to pray for, but she could not alter her simple aspirations.

No, not when she wanted to make her father proud, not when she wanted to become a singer the moment she first heard the lovely, warming notes of music played ever so softly from the strings of her father's fiddle. Singing and performing on stage was in her blood. Her Scandinavian ancestors were notorious in the performing arts. Singing bards and playing the role of tragic heroes from epic sagas were part of her history; it made her who she was.

Her father spoke fondly of their ancestors, and the love derived from ancient folklore and music. The Angel of Music was part of that, too. It was a shame Little Lotte was visited by the actual angel, and she, visited by a devil.

Christine dug her uneven nails in the palms of her hands. Anger and disbelief inundated her mind, forcing her to stare into the darkness. Her spiteful glare distinguished various objects, silhouetted by the night's poor light.

This room was not the train's stateroom, she realized. It was too simple, too plain. The unembellished furnishings held an air of modesty to them. Instead of a garish set of mismatched tapestries, there was a small, wooden cross hanging on the opposite wall. An undersized table on three unsteady legs sufficed for a nightstand, while the bed and other pieces of furniture simply decourated the room.

Her hazy eyes finally adjusted to the dim settings. Rubbing them, she turned her attention to the closed window. An olive-green curtain obscured most of the casement, but a small beam of moonlight penetrated through the crack, allowing enough light into the dense room.

She sighed against the opaque stillness, wondering where she was. Her aching mind tried to focus upon what had happened, but found it to be a blur. The only memory that remained was an argument with Erik, then an unexpected collision against something that caused her to lose consciousness.

But what happened after her blackout? She had no answer. The only person who would know was not here. She frowned from the acknowledgement. Where was he? Where was Erik?

Innate concern tore at her mind. Did something terrible happen on the train? Christine forced herself to remember everything before her collapse. She remembered arguing with Erik about her decision of staying, their heated debate interrupted by her sudden contact against him…

Her hazy mind finally registered a vague memory. She had asked him what was happening as he held her tightly against him. Fear inundated her heart when loose objects fell from the table and shelves. Erik's words were muffled and lost to her when she felt herself tear away from his arms. The only word, which remained, was _wreck_. Wait… It was impossible. The train could not have wrecked. And yet she was not on it.

"Oh, God," she muttered under a steely breath, wondering where her captor was. "Erik…!"

Without thinking, Christine pulled the sheets away and bolted from the bed, only to fall in the process. She felt a terrible sting in her left temple as she tried to stand. Much to her dismay, she could not compel herself to rise.

She felt powerless, crippled; the muscles within her frail frame aching against the wooden floor. A soft groan escaped her, as she lay prone on the cold floorboards. Her strength had left her, causing her temporary paralysis.

Christine closed her blurry eyes in a weak attempt to placate her aching limbs. Unsteady breaths escaped her as she tried to focus upon her surroundings, but unfortunately lost the battle against a sudden sense of fatigue.

Beads of sweat emerged from the small pours on her forehead as her useless limbs quivered with chilling tremours. She felt her perception fade, her mind falling victim to unwanted oblivion. She was going to faint again.

Her eyes opened a final time, vaguely noticing a new shadow within the darkened room. She felt a sudden, soothing warmth envelope her numb flesh. A gentle breath alleviated the lack of feeling within her stiff joints, her mind partially returning from the void.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by a deep, tranquil voice. The rich masculine timbre eased her distress, silently assuring her. She felt her tense muscles slacken against the calming figure.

"Erik…?" she sighed weakly.

"Shh." Gentle amber eyes glimmered with unfamiliar sincerity. "Go back to sleep, Christine," he whispered, gently placing her under the warm sheets.

Christine tried to focus, but the soft, hypnotic voice lulled her away from consciousness; its pleasant, dulcet tones compelling her to close her eyes, and dream only of childish innocence.

It was the first time in many months Christine allowed herself to give in to the comforting sound of Erik's amicable voice, its melodic timbre mesmerizing her, persuading her to fall under its enigmatic spell once again.

And how could she refuse him? She no longer had the strength to stand a legitimate chance against him—especially with his divine voice tormenting her bewildered mind. In any case, she would never escape her sweet, deceptive Angel of Music.

Moreover, her weakness condemned her to become a victim to his voice, his voice, which controlled and terrified her, and would inevitably damn her.

Erik would have his revenge not by murdering her, but by contending with the destruction of her soul. He would acquire her loss by watching her surrender and fade into the shadows of utter desolation.

It was the worst form of torment. And yet she could not cry for her situation. No, not when she embraced the enemy, and willingly fell under his malevolent enchantment…

…

Sunlight poured in through the tiny window; its rich, untainted radiance illuminating everything within its path. The steady beams flooded the room with ethereal warmth, encompassing everything in a blanket of consolation.

Its heated touch teased the cold, pallid flesh, bestowing a touch of life. Ashen lips slightly curved into a smile as a pair of azure eyes tentatively opened. A groan escaped her as the sunlight stung her hazy eyes.

Rubbing them, Christine focused upon an unfamiliar face. Bright hazel eyes stared at her with a vivid intensity, which caused her to regress from the sight. Unkempt, russet locks fell against sun-kissed cheeks, giving the impression of a carefree teenager who enjoyed the art of scrutinizing the invalid.

"Who—" Christine asked, before her silent examiner interrupted her.

"Oh, _Kina_! You're finally awake!" Hazel eyes glittered with strange exhilaration. "I thought you would remain in a seven-year slumber!"

Seven-year slumber? What did she mean by that? Christine wondered. Catching her breath, she adjusted herself into a semi-vertical position, wincing from the unexpected pain in her tender joints. She finally gathered enough strength to ask, "What do you mean? And who is this _'Kina'_ you speak of?"

A subtle blush reddened the girl's bronzed complexion. "Oh, forgive my Slavonic tongue," she muttered an apology. "It is your name in my native tongue…I tend to forget that I'm speaking another language. It happens when I become too excited and forget to be…more precise." She added with a smile.

"And yet you speak French?" Christine arched a sable brow, studying the lively girl.

"_Oui, mademoiselle!_ Well, at least a little. My mother taught me before…" she paused, her bright eyes dimming from an unpleasant memory. "I know part of the language…"

Christine heard the reluctant admission within the girl's voice. She found it best not to pry, and did not pursue the conversation further.

Deciding to change the subject to a more suitable subject, Christine mirrored the girl's timid smile. "I'm grateful that you know my language; you speak it quite well."

The young girl flushed at Christine's complement. "_Merci, mademoiselle._"

"Please, call me Christine." She offered a hand in friendship.

She watched, as the girl timidly clasped her hand. "And I am Anja. Anja Akhmatova."

"It's a pleasure to meet to you, Anja." Christine paused for a moment. "But I must ask you—"

"Ask me how you got here?" She grinned, as if reading Christine's mind. "What do you remember, exactly?"

Christine glanced at the worn coverlet. "Only that I fell upon a friend of mine, and then hitting my head against something. I do not recall anything more than that."

Anja smiled solemnly, her sympathetic expression somewhat giving comfort to her guest. "It must be terrible to experience something so traumatic. I could not imagine the pain and fear you went through from such an event."

Nodding in agreement, Christine briefly glanced at the door. Staring at its wooden surface, she made a silent move to rise, but was stopped by a pair of firm hands. "No," Anja murmured softly. "You need to rest until your strength returns."

Christine closed her eyes, trying to veil her visible pain. "Where's Erik?"

Anja stared at the young soprano with bewildered eyes. "Erik? Is that his name?" When Christine did not answer, she added, "He never actually gave my mother a name, only that he was your guardian, and your forename was Christine. That's how I know it."

"Yes." Christine inclined her weary head. "He was the friend I mentioned. I need to see him."

Standing from the chair, the young maiden crossed her arms. "Your guardian has forbidden you to leave the room."

She did not wish to argue with her mysterious concierge. Instead, she nodded in acceptance. Whatever her 'guardian' had in mind, she was too weak to defy him. "All right. I'll stay here until he returns." Christine opened her tired eyes. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days. You were submerged in the lake's frozen water, which can be fatal. Your guardian brought you here without concern for his own health, and stayed with you until this morning." Anja looked at the floor, and smiled. "He refused to rest until your fever broke, even then he would not leave your side."

Christine stared at Anja's guileless face. A myriad of unanswered questions brewed within the back of her mind. "He stayed with me?" she murmured to herself. "Why?"

_Why?_ Anja silently questioned her bemused guest. How could she answer that question when it was apparent why he stayed? Maybe Christine did not understand her guardian's concern for her, which made her remain in a state of confusion. Her guardian's actions, although subtle, still held quite an impact; at least to Anja.

She would not inquire about it. Christine needed to regain her lost strength. The poor girl did not realize how close she was to death, and how irate her guardian had become when her mother said that Christine had a chance of not surviving the night. Anja remembered the dangers of falling into a frigid lake all too well. It was the reason for her reluctance around the frozen bodies of water.

But she would not share that with Christine. No, the past was better left to be an unspoken memory. Besides, she felt a strong connection with the strange foreigner. Although she did not resemble an ordinary Russian girl, Christine's friendly appearance was comforting, and appealed greatly to Anja. No wonder her 'friend' watched over her like a sentinel, guarding her, protecting her. It was a pity Christine did not see that.

Anja pulled the discarded sheets around Christine. "You need to stay in bed," she advised, her voice earnest. "I will bring you a cup of tea in a few minutes. Will you be all right while I'm gone?"

Christine silently nodded, watching the young lady smile. Anja grasped the doorknob, and said, "I will return shortly," she paused, debating whether or not to continue. Waiting a moment, she asked, "I would love to talk to you about where you come from. I understand that France is a lovely country, and is very different from Russia… That is if you don't mind, of course?"

"I would love to." Christine pulled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Maybe you can tell me more about this country. It is very beautiful."

Anja wrinkled her nose. "You think so?" she laughed. "How do you find cold winters and small villages interesting? I suppose France is unlike Russia, though."

"I believe your country is different than mine in many ways, but I'm sure there are many similarities."

"Maybe you're right," Anja admitted with a smile. "We'll discuss it when I return." She noticed Christine's gaze upon the door, silently understanding why. "Your guardian left early this morning. He told my mother that he would be back this afternoon to watch over you."

Christine did not reply to her statement. How did Anja know that Erik was on her mind? It did not matter. In any case, she would see him soon enough, and then she would have a few questions answered.

"Thank you, Anja." A dull smile graced her pale lips. "I'm looking forward to our discussion."

Anja bit her lip, holding back an impending grin. She opened the door, its rusted hinges groaning against its sudden use. She looked at Christine once more, before closing the wooden obstruction behind her, and locking it.

Christine flinched from the gentle click of the door's lock. It was an indicative sign that she was a prisoner after all. Even in this modest household, she felt the invisible chains of captivity coil around her; forcing her to surrender and relinquish her freedom. She felt trapped in this room, her staggered breath choking her.

Death would be a release next to this torture. Christine berated herself again. She was such a fool to believe that Erik could be more than a heartless monster. In her heart, she wanted to believe that he was merely the unfortunate result of Fate's cruel machinations against humanity—the worst result, which compelled him to commit atrocious crimes against his fellowman. He did not care for anyone or anything, not even himself. And she was nothing more than a puppet to him, a means to an end.

And yet she could not find it in herself to condemn him, not when her uncertainty prevailed over reason. Instead of answering her questions, Anja's confession created more. God, why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn't she understand Erik as easily as she did Raoul? Why was he so complex, so enigmatic? She could live with him for years, know everything about him, and he would still surprise her.

"What is this mask you wear, Erik?" she whispered softly. "Why do you confuse me so? I do not understand you, or anything you do…I never will."

Her silent omission went unanswered, the bitter air holding her words in its remote stillness. She felt as if her questions would remain unanswered. Erik would _always_ have the upper hand, leaving her to wonder what he had in mind next. He was, after all, the one who held the strings manipulating her to do his will.

But something within her heart forced her not to concede, and not to surrender to him. She could not explain the reason, but the desire to stand against him compelled her. To persevere: and perhaps even the score.

"I may not overcome you, Erik," she murmured under her breath. "But I can still try."

…

Christine's conversation with Anja was the highlight of her day. Not only did she convince her hostess to escape the smothering confines of her room, but she also enjoyed the sights the small cottage had to offer.

It was simple to say the least. Very few ornaments and trinkets plagued the home with their gaudy presence, which was a far cry from the style the French nobility were unfortunately accustomed to.

The cottage was only one level, and obtained four rooms: one, being the kitchen, which was connected to a small sitting-dining area, while the others were used for private rooms.

Anja gave her a brief tour before escorting her to a comfortable chair at the dining table. "I regret that our home is not what you're accustomed to," she apologized for their lack of wealth.

Pity tore at Christine's heart. Did Anja honestly believe that she was part of the gentry? She quickly amended her new friend's apology, expressing that she also lived in a tiny home with an ailing proprietress.

Curiosity about Christine's family and background obliged Anja to ask a myriad of questions. Christine returned the same interest in Anja's family, but found the girl to be more hesitant in her explanations.

Although she wanted to inquire further, she didn't. A sense of respect for one's past was a lesson she learned the hard way. She refused to repeat the same mistake, vowing that her curiosity would stay under control.

Their conversation flowed into natural topics like the diversity between their cultures—especially in history and art. Anja discovered that Christine was not truly French, but actually descended from Sweden with her father.

"…After my mother died, Papa decided to become a world-renowned musician, and make me a prominent figure in opera," Christine spoke tenderly of the bittersweet memory. "It was his dream to see his daughter praised by an adoring audience."

Anja's eyes were filled with visible awe. "And you are, _dah_?"

Christine glanced at her folded hands, a soft blush staining her cheeks. "I would like to say yes, but I fear I'm not the best."

"But your voice is so soft, so docile," Anja protested. "I wouldn't doubt that people would flock to see you!"

Azure eyes displayed unspoken gratitude for the complement. A soft smile embellished Christine's pale lips, which restored part of her former beauty. "Thank you, Anja. I appreciate your kindness."

Anja waved the appreciation aside. "I only tell the truth, Christine. I'm not one to evade or hedge when something needs to be acknowledged. I just hope that you prove me right."

Disbelief clouded her expression. "You…want me to sing for you?"

"When you are well, and that is if you want to." She folded her arms in akimbo. "I don't want to press you into something you don't wish to do."

Christine looked at her hands once again, finding comfort in their clammy texture. Her heart pounded erratically against her chest, as blood swelled against her brain. The simple request was not so simple. It was more of a Herculean task, which she could not undergo.

Singing was the purpose—and also—the bane of her life. Like a double-edged sword, it impaled her with its deadly end, ensuring her death. The beautiful voice within her ceased to exist, and there was no hope for its resurrection.

She had lied to Erik when she vowed that she would stop singing—she had. After her escape from his home on the lake, Christine could not find it within herself to continue, not now anyway. The memory of it was too new, too painful to bear. And she refused to open a fresh wound.

And yet she could not deny this girl such a simple request. After so much Anja and her family did them, she could at least return a fraction of the payment. With an unsteady breath, Christine nodded in agreement, and accepted her fate.

A growing smile covered Anja's feint lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by a soft voice.

"Anja, are you in there?"

"Yes, Mama," Anja answered, her voice carrying a cheerful tone.

Christine watched Anja leave the room. Whispered voices were heard, and a faint sound of a child coughing echoed from the small foyer. The sound of footsteps followed, and a moment later Anja appeared. A faint frown furrowed her dark brows, as another figure followed her into the room.

The poor firelight, combined with the impending twilight, made the details on things hard to discern, especially when looking in the windowpane's reflection. The silhouette of an older, taller female overshadowed Anja. Christine noticed a walking stick in the figure's right hand, and part of the wall in the other.

Cautious steps echoed against the aged floorboards, their grating sounds intimidating Christine. She noticed Anja take a seat beside of her on the burgundy divan, as the other female found a place in an adjacent rocking chair, her back to the intimidated opera singer.

Silence ensued as the three sat, their attention transfixed upon the other, until it was finally broken by a cheery voice.

"Greetings, _mademoiselle_, I'm Aurelia Akhmatova. I'm relieved to know that you're recovering. I trust Anja has been entertaining you today?" The shadows concealed the matron's smile.

Christine eyed the indiscernible lady with growing hesitance. The firelight cast unnatural shades upon everything, their vibrant colours portraying an eerie light. Her eyes widened when she noticed the lady before her.

The soft hues from the burning embers merely condensed the beauty of this strange woman. Unlike her daughter, Aurelia Akhmatova was fair; the portrait of everything feminine. Long ringlets of gold cascaded against her porcelain cheeks, a set of pouting lips added to the beauteous combination. Her neck was slender, the rest of her petite figure was comprised in a lascivious curves, which any female would envy.

But for all of her graceful perfections, one thing damned the beauty of this woman—a simple scarf bound against her eyes. The brash, blood-red colour veiled where a pair of lovely jeweled eyes were supposed to be, indicating that something terrible lay beneath the delicate silk.

"I see that you've noticed my scarf!" a gentle voice teased.

"Oh, no. I…was…just—"

"It's all right," Aurelia murmured. "I'm used to people looking at me before answering." She pulled the weathered walking stick across her lap. Laying her delicate fingers against its battered surface, she continued. "And yes, I am blind."

Christine cast her eyes to the floor, humiliation covering her face. "I am so sorry, _madam_. I did not mean to stare. I couldn't see you too well in the room."

Aurelia inwardly smiled at her guest's awkwardness. Unlike many, this lady was truly apologetic in her ramblings, not to mention honest. She knew the lighting in the room would be terrible, that was why she made her visit so unexpected.

"If anyone should apologize, it is I," Aurelia stated. "I knew the room's light was poor, and that you would want to meet your hostess with the best greeting you could procure. And I thank you for your sincerity, my dear. Please forgive my cruel sense of humour; I wanted to see if you would notice like the others."

Christine was taken aback by her hostess' blunt explanation. Never had she met someone who would use his or her disability in such a manner, and jest about it, nevertheless! Apparently _Madam_ Akhmatova was different from those who lashed out against others for their handicap.

"I'm sorry, _madam,_" Christine began. "I am…"

"…Not used to someone playing such a cruel trick?" Aurelia finished for her. "I don't want your pity for something that does not require it. I am not crippled; I can still do normal things without my eyes. I just wish people would see that." She smiled at the irony of her words. "But apparently they cannot see beyond this red scarf, either..."

Sympathy filled her for this woman. It would take much strength and integrity to overcome such an obstacle. A deep respect for Aurelia Akhmatova inundated through her, forcing her to mirror her hostess' bittersweet smile.

"I suppose not, but that's their fault," she murmured in a hushed whisper.

Aurelia beamed at Christine's sincere words. "You have a unique way of making an old woman like me blush." She cradled the walking stick lovingly. "It's a shame such sincerity is not common around here."

"_Madam_, I believe sincerity is found within the soul, not in the external part of a person."

"Wise words from such a young lady." Aurelia smiled. "Your guardian must be proud of you."

Christine frowned at Aurelia's acknowledgement. Her 'guardian' was not proud of her; he hated her. But she would not dash the naïve beliefs her hostess obtained. Instead, she nodded her head in agreement, even though the insightful matron could not see her.

Aurelia sensed Christine's hesitance about the mentioning of her guardian. She felt a growing timidity within her guest. Albeit she could not see it, the hesitation was still there. Perhaps she was too shrewd in her beliefs, but she was always one to jump to conclusions. A terrible trait to harbour, she silently admitted; but one that was usually not wrong. Not to mention she prided herself at being a great judge in people's emotions.

She would not question the girl. The poor thing had been through enough as it was. It was hard to imagine going through so much in her short life, then almost falling into the hands of Death. Aurelia admired Christine for more than her lucky escape from death, but also for her solemnity. There was more to her guest than what met the eye, and she intended to find out what made her so genuine. Or, at least, understand the reason behind her practical behaviour.

The tension built between the three women, the gauche position threatening to overcome their composure. Aurelia realized Christine would not be the one to initiate conversation and break the uncomfortable silence, nor her daughter. What was it with young women today? she wondered. Why couldn't they find the means to make the best out of an awkward situation?

Shaking her blonde head, she placed the walking stick by a nearby table. "So, tell me, _mademoiselle_, how do you like our _beloved_ country so far?"

Christine pulled her attention away from the floor, and glanced at her hostess. "Oh," she found herself begin. "I…find it to be a very beautiful land. I never imagined the landscape to be so natural, so lovely. Paris certainly dims in comparison to Russia."

"Yes." Aurelia turned to face the darkened window. "It is beautiful. I remember roaming the hills when I was a little girl." She faintly smiled, recalling memories of a bittersweet past. "But we are not as advanced as your land is. We still depend upon candles and lamplight. I've heard that Paris and other cities have something called electricity, but I cannot see light illuminating from a small glass bulb."

She could not retain her smile as she laughed at Aurelia's comment. "I believe an American inventor by the name of Edison came up with the idea. He said he wanted to make a bulb, which could last longer than a gas lamp, and be more durable than a candle.

"People ridiculed him for his idea, and said that it was impossible to create light with glass and other common, household materials." Christine chuckled to herself. "He used a simple piece of thread to combine the wiring, and created a light bulb just in time for the New Year's celebration last year."

Aurelia furrowed her golden eyebrows. "It figures that an American would come up with a harebrained scheme like that. Of course, I believe Petersburg is beginning to use that electrical nonsense. The new tsar is changing everything." She shook her head solemnly.

Aurelia's comment pricked Christine's interest. "New tsar?"

"Yes. His imperial highness, the grand Tsar Alexander III," she muttered with disdain. "He came to power after his father, Alexander II, passed away some months ago. By a political assassin, no doubt."

Sensing Christine's confusion, she clarified, "It's not that I do not appreciate the new tsar and his policies, I just don't understand why he is determined to change everything so dramatically."

"What do you mean?" Christine could not help but ask.

"He's changing everything his father built. His reforms and ideologies are not helping the country; they're destroying it. Very soon, Russia will collapse and fall to ruin. I fear this will happen as the tsar's reign endures."

Christine did not disagree with Aurelia's belief. How could she when she knew very little about the country, especially when it concerned politics? Besides, she could not argue about leaders and their hasty notions; France had its share of them. It was a shame her country went through leaders like a seven course meal.

"I'm sure everything will turn out all right in the end," Christine said optimistically.

"I hope you're right—for my children's sake."

Before Christine could inquire about Aurelia's other children, the older woman stood from her chair. Her nimble fingers coiled around the worn staff as she made her way over to Christine, a small smile tugging at her rosy lips.

"Now, I must complete your visit here." She silenced Christine with an indifferent wave of her free hand. "As a custom, I always familiarize myself with my guests by touching their face." She blushed at her apparent discomfiture. "It's the only way I can _see_ what you look like, my dear. Please, don't take offense to my request. It's perfectly harmless, I assure you."

Christine nodded slowly, as Aurelia's calloused fingertips graced against her smooth cheeks. She felt the matron explore the curve of her jaw and chin. Aurelia's fingertips traced against her dry lips as they met the tip of her nose. The older woman chuckled as she pressed the her pallid cheeks.

After her fingers finished their examination, Aurelia pulled away from Christine's face. Shaking her headed with rugged dismay, she glanced at her silent guest, her obscured eyes giving no hint to her disposition. "Now I see why he's so protective over you. My God, you're beautiful, my dear! I would not doubt that your guardian has to fight off your suitors with a stick!"

Mouth agape, Christine tried to disagree with Aurelia's comment, but Anja interrupted her. "Isn't she?" she asked with girlish glee. "I've never met a lady who has such stunning features! Why, I would even say she rivals the tsarina in beauty!"

Aurelia laughed, her melodic voice echoing throughout the condensed room. "I must agree with you on that, daughter. The tsarina is Danish, after all; which is certainly a pity when it comes to the exotic beauty of the French."

"Actually, I'm from Sweden," Christine amended. "I moved to France when I was a child, and learned the language soon after my arrival."

Aurelia glanced her, her mouth twisted in wonderment. "You're Scandinavian? I did not realize that you were. And here I imagined you to be dark instead of fair."

Christine blushed at the misguided impression. "It's true that many from my country are fair—and I _was_ as a small child, but my hair became darker as I aged." She smiled at Aurelia. "So, you were right in your assumptions."

"Good. I grow weary of meeting ladies with this terrible colouring." She caught a lock of her golden hair. "I would give almost anything to be dark and exotic as you. Most men prize a lady who projects a mysterious aura, instead of the willowy fairness propriety idolizes." She nodded in regret. "You are very fortunate, my dear."

"I somewhat miss my golden hair, but I must admit that my dark curls are fine, too." She regarded the proprietress with true sincerity. "You look wonderful with your fair complexion. People in France try to stay out of the sun in order to keep their much-desired, ashen beauty. They believe it is unsophisticated to have dark features." She chuckled from the raw insight.

"Imagine the stares I received when I was on the opera stage, and the light obscured my figure! But, at least, people could see me against the white backdrops," she amended, remembering the unpleased, pasty faces of the upper class.

"You sing?" Aurelia's amazement did not go unappreciated.

"Of course she can, mama!" Anja beamed. "She promised to sing for me as soon as she is well!" She smiled at Christine with visible delight.

"That would be wonderful," Aurelia muttered softly. "Music is the core of the soul. In my opinion, anyway." Her unblemished face looked thoughtful. "It would be nice to have music in this house once again. It's been so long that I've almost forgotten the lost sense of harmony this old place used to have…"

Anja nodded, her eyes filled with silent understanding. Turning to Christine, she asked, "Maybe you can sing something for us that comes from your country."

Christine stared at Anja with hidden trepidation. "_My_ country? You mean sing something from Sweden?"

"Why, yes." Anja answered, her jubilant expression melding to one of semi-puzzlement. "I've heard that Swedish composers surpass that of the Italian and Viennese composers."

She flushed at Anja's bold statement. Clearly the girl set her expectations a little too high. Especially since she apparently believed that her voice could outmatch that of famous opera prima donnas from other countries, which held great acclaim from their captive audience.

"Really, I'm not that good at singing, Anja," she confessed with a sense of gravity.

"We'll see." Anja crossed her arms in defiance.

"Anja," Aurelia cut in. "Isn't it time for bed?"

She knew when her mother wanted to bring a quick end to an uncomfortable subject. With a solemn nod, she stood from the worn sofa. "Yes, mama. I will go directly."

"But now would be better, daughter. You have an early day tomorrow, remember?"

Oh, how could she forget? Veiling her disgust of the household work to come, Anja kissed her mother's cheek, and turned to Christine. "Well, I suppose I will see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Anja." Christine grasped the girl's hand in silent admiration.

Anja gave her a weary smile, turned, and vanished down the darkened corridor. Christine watched as Anja vanished, feeling slightly regretful that her friend could not stay longer. It was nice to have friends brighten a dreary setting with their innate sense of optimism.

"My daughter is a little too dramatic, I fear. But she is a good child, nonetheless." Aurelia broke the awkward silence.

"Yes, she is." Christine agreed with a timid grin.

Aurelia stoked the small fire with a rusted poker, her pallid hands reaching out to the lively flames. "But, of course, you were the same as a child, _dah_?" She smirked at her inquiring words. "I remember when my daughter would ask me why the sky was blue or why the grass was green. She was such a curious child, and apparently, still is."

Christine frowned, her dark brows furrowing with mute consternation. "Yes, but sometimes our curiosity can lead us down a dangerous path, and make us regret our meddling in private affairs, which does not concern us."

"You speak as if you've been in that position before," Aurelia murmured grimly. "And I must agree with you, but to not question some things would lead to unanswered questions; questions, which could also destroy you." She returned to her seat, wrinkling the folds of her dress as she sat down. "I believe it's better to take a chance than regret not taking it for the rest of your life.

She watched the matron frown from her solemn words. "But what if that chance makes you regret taking it? What if you were better off not knowing the consequences?"

Aurelia's attention remained on the fire, her face pensive with unspoken thoughts. After a moment of silence, she turned her golden head and faced Christine. "I don't know, my dear. I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you." She paused for a moment. "But perhaps your hasty decision would lead to your greatest achievement. Perhaps, by your loss, you would truly gain what you wanted in life and be content." She shook her head in frustration. "I don't know. My metaphorical ramblings are generally incorrect."

"But you appear to be a very perceptive woman," Christine argued. "I understand you're meaning, but I suppose I shall have to cross that bridge when I come to it."

"You certainly will," Aurelia agreed. "No one could make that decision for you."

Christine cradled her frail hands. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated but continued anyway. "Thank you for letting us stay. I know I've told Anja countless times, but I'm truly grateful for your kindness."

"Kindness?" she frowned. "How could I deny you a place to stay when you were dying on my doorstep?"

"I know I fell into the lake and lost consciousness…"

"Unconscious? You were on the verge of death!" Aurelia pinched the bridge of her nose. "If your guardian had not barged through the door and demanded aid, I believe he would have forced us outside." She hid a furtive smile. "He was very protective over you, my dear.

"It was as if a demon had possessed him, forcing him to recover your pulse. He did everything he could to save you. And trust me, his medical skills could rival a professional physician's any day."

Christine did not comment on his close encounter with death. She would let her hostess believe that Erik was the epitome of medical knowledge. However, he did save her life, and she, his. They were even now.

"I will thank him as soon as he returns," she muttered under a rigid breath.

Aurelia paid no heed to Christine's reluctant statement. Instead, she rocked to and fro in the wooden rocking chair. "I'm sure you will. He is rather kind, although I have not had the chance to actually see what he looks like. His voice is captivating, but his manner is a little austere, devoid of contact with others.

"I was…hesitant to ask him what he looked like." She held her breath for a tense moment. "Would you care to describe him for me? I cannot match his name to a face. Only his voice suffices for a name."

Interest consumed Christine. Aurelia's last comment made her wonder what Erik's last name truly was. He never revealed a lot about himself, especially simple facts about his person.

"Did he give you a last name?" she asked, impatiently waiting for an answer.

Aurelia shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. He told me that your name was Christine, and that you were his ward. He was so hesitant about giving me any personal information about you. Most of what I know came from this evening's discussion."

Disappointment clouded her pale features. Damn him. He was so careful not to compromise his ideas of vengeance that he lied, hoping to use his skills of intimidation on a poor blind woman and her helpless children. She never realized how sick and diabolical he could be when it came to his lust for vengeance. Her stilted admiration for him was teetering on the edge of collapse.

Christine looked at the floor with an overwhelming sense of disgust. "He's tall, but not muscular, more lithe, if anything," she began. "He has a pale complexion and dark hair, and his eyes—"

She could not finish as footsteps in the corridor stopped her verbal description. Amber eyes stared at her with an unreadable expression. Looking away, they focused on Aurelia. "_Madam_, I have returned. I apologize for coming in at a late hour."

Aurelia held her hands in a prim manner. "It's all right, _monsieur_. I understand that business can take quite some time to finish." She smiled at Christine. "It appears that _mademoiselle_ is recovering without fear of a relapse."

Erik glanced at Christine. "Yes, it appears she is recovering her strength." He gestured for her to rise and join him. "However, I believe it's time she returns to bed; she can still overexert herself."

Aurelia nodded to her. "He's right, my dear. Rest yourself. Anja and I will see you in the morning."

Christine stood from the soft confines of the sofa. She clasped one of Aurelia's delicate hands, and smiled. "Goodnight, _madam_."

"Goodnight, my dear," she murmured, squeezing Christine's offered hand.

Reluctantly she released Aurelia's hand, and made her way to his side. She kept her eyes to the floor as she felt his cold, piercing eyes scrutinize her. The sudden discomfort under his frigid scrutiny made her inwardly cringe. She was about to turn away when she felt an icy, skeletal hand clasp her right shoulder.

"Come, Christine," he urged, his eyes harbouring a murderous gleam. "It's time to rest."

She inclined her head, refusing to make a scene in front of Aurelia. His gaze fell over her defeated figure as he led her down the darkened hall. She felt his warm, steely breath stagger against her bare neck, the feeling more daunting than comforting.

Their footsteps echoed in unison before reaching the door. Christine felt Erik's hand tighten around her captive shoulder, and then the cruel shove that followed. Her eyes widened to see him shut the door and lock it with a key, imprisoning them together.

Her heart thrashed madly against her chest as she took a step back from his imposing presence. She felt the bottled anger permeate throughout the small room. He was very angry with her, but why? What had she done to set him off?

Christine held her cold hands against her chest in a subtle act of defense. Sweat threatened to escape from her aching forehead, the small droplets evading through the small pores.

He must have sensed her unease because he turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. She watched as long, white fingers moved within the pale moonlight, their enigmatic movements reminding her of a spider's nimble legs.

She cringed from the thought. It was a common phobia for many, but spiders did more than unnerve her, they terrified her. She hated the disgusting little creatures with a passion. They made her remember such a terrible and unwanted memory…

Her mind quickly retrieved the discarded memory. She was seven and just received a pair of new shoes from her father. The gift meant so much to her when she opened the wooden box that she almost cried in front of him.

Her tears were not only for her father's thoughtful gesture, but also because she needed a new pair and they were limited on money.

She remembered her father's silent urge for her to try them on. Removing the leather-worn boots, she pulled a pair delicately crafted leather shoes from the wrapping. The shoes were not the traditional black or dark brown many children wore. Instead, they were a deep, rich colour of navy—like the sea.

It was like Christmas without the spice cake or sugarcoated oranges. Nevertheless, she felt like a princess that day, owning the world and holding it within her tiny palm.

Her father implored her to try on the shoes, and without a hint of reluctance, she obeyed. Her tiny foot nestled itself into the dark confines of her shoe until she felt something warm and squishy. She pulled her foot away from the boot and glanced at her stocking.

There on bottom of her stocking, were remains of a small creature. Yellow fused with red liquid in a morbid painting of bright colours. Clear juice added to picturesque scene, making her stomach churn from the abominable sight.

Her father pulled the discarded shoe from the floor, shook it, and examined the tiny black ball, which fell onto the wood floorboards. His smile faded to a frown as he pulled Christine against him, comforting her.

He cleaned up the horrid mess and explained that it was merely a spider. Unfortunately, his promise of no other spiders still deterred her from putting the shoe on.

Her father sighed in dismay as he reluctantly placed the shoes back in the box. He eyed her with solemnity when he placed the small box in a trunk and turned away from it.

The shoes were untouched for almost six months.

By then, her old shoes had holes coming through the soles and she had to replace them. With reluctance, she opened the antique trunk and dug through the mouth-eaten garments. Her tiny hands pulled away a plain, burgundy dress her mother had once wore to a village festival. She did not ask her father why he kept the dress, secretly knowing that it was of sentimental value to him.

Moving aside a patched blanket, she found the box and hesitantly removed it. Her tentative hands clasped onto its edges as she set it on the bed. With an intake of breath, she removed its top and opened her eyes.

The shoes were the same as when she opened them six months before. The navy leather gleamed as sunlight poured in through the window.

Christine bit her tiny lip in irritation. Going through the trunk and opening the box were the simple parts of her quest. But slipping the shoes on would be the most difficult, the most trying part of all.

Forcing aside her childish fear, she slipped her feet into the leather shoes and sighed, feeling nothing as her feet pressed against the comfortable soles. She opened her azure eyes, bewildered to find nothing but comfortable leather. No spider guts or spongy liquid touched the base of her feet.

Pride coursed through her soul. And that night, she danced in front of her father, displaying the navy boots in all of their glory.

Her father's applause echoed within her mind, and for a moment, she forgot she was in a room with the devil-incarnate.

Erik was all too happy to shatter her sweet reverie.

"What are you gawking at?" he growled.

"Noth—nothing," Christine stammered. "It was nothing," she murmured to herself, keeping her eyes to the floor.

"Nothing?" he mocked. "I somehow doubt that."

Erik waited a moment before he moved away from the door. Placing a small parcel on a nearby table, he marched to the window and stared through its dark panes. After a moment's silence, he turned to her, his unnatural amber eyes gleaming within the darkness.

Christine felt the yellow irises dissect her like an insect pinned to a frame. It was hard to see his eyes during daylight hours, but at night, they were quite discernable. Like two ominous lights glowing within the pitch-black night, she felt herself draw against their deadly presence, invoking them on some wild fancy.

She did not notice him removing his cloak until it fell against an idle chair. His lithe movements within the shadows reminded her of a banshee—sidhe—from Irish lore. The foreboding presence of a spectral figure was a telltale sign of someone's impending death. Erik could play that part very well. He had the dark, domineering appearance, not to mention the aloof demenour of a deliverer of death. God of Hell might be a better name for him. His cold alacrity proved that he could never be a benevolent angel.

Whether he was a dark god or kind angel, it did not matter. Not when he looked as if he would murder her with his searing gaze. She felt her flesh burn against his harsh scrutiny. God, he was angry.

She watched him tap his fingers against chair's back, his long nails pattering against the dark wood. The sound echoed within the condensed room and held her attention until the constant tapping became an annoyance.

He was trying to unnerve her with the subtle provocation. Well, it would not work this time. She was through with his manipulative acts. He would not watch her lose her composure again, not tonight anyway.

"If you're going to reprimand me, Erik, then do so." Her shoulders stiffened, as she stared defiantly into his eyes.

Erik glared at her, partially admiring her carefully constructed bravado. Unfortunately, it would save her from his wrath.

"What were you doing out of your room, Christine?" Erik questioned, his melodic voice tainted with deep contempt.

Christine did not miss the restrained demand in his tone, nor the burning fury gleaming within his cruel eyes. She stood, refusing to retreat to the sanctuary of the bed. Forcing herself meet his heated gaze, she finally spoke. "I promised Anja that I would have a talk with her as soon as I was able to move." She pulled a loose, black tendril away from her forehead. "You left me here, not even having the consideration of writing me a note. Did you believe that I would stay in bed until you came back—if you even planned to come back?"

"I gave specific instructions that you were to be watched until I returned," he retorted.

"And I was," she countered. "Anja and her mother have watched me all day." Her voice became serious. "They followed your instructions. And I must confess that getting out of this room actually improved my health."

He rebuked her comment with a terse laugh. "Improved your health? I daresay you've most likely worsened it. The cool air may be soothing for the soul, but it is also very deadly. You can still feel the effects of your illness without knowing what caused it."

"And how would you know?" she muttered. "You're _not_ a physician."

"Do you know that for certain?" he asked cryptically. "Do you believe that I've lived under the Opéra since I came into this dismal existence? My dear, I helped build that structure," he added, his voice filled with sarcasm.

"There are things, Christine, things you could never know about me. Of course, I'm confident that you've heard of a few tales from unreliable sources. But let us not get into that. I'm sure that you do not wish to hear of the countless murders I've committed, or the cruel methods of torture which I suggested to the Persian prison guards—and trust me, they were quite grateful." He gave her a crooked smile. "It's almost like painting a portrait… With crimson blood seeping through gaping wounds and the sound of pure agony emitting from your marvelous creation. It's like…writing poetry…"

Christine held a hand over her mouth, his callous words making her visualize another's agony. "Stop it," she whispered.

"Stop what?" he asked, moving to her side. "Stop being honest?"

She felt Erik's heated breath tease her collarbone. A skeletal finger traced the bare flesh, setting her skin ablaze. His turbulent eyes gleamed within the moonlight, their yellow hue oversetting the awkward mood.

His long nails slid against her smooth cheeks, tantalizing her flesh with an unnamable feeling. Bony fingers raked through her curly hair, teasing the loose strands as they traveled down her back.

"So beautiful, so traitorous," he glowered, pulling her into a resolute embrace. His masked face was barely an inch from hers, his cold lips twisting into a crooked smile.

Christine was afraid, so afraid that he would kiss her. She would die if he crossed that barrier. Erik felt her timidity, but didn't care, didn't care to know how much he frightened her.

Finding her voice, she asked in a staggered breath, "What are you going to do with me?"

"What would you have me do, Christine?"

His simple question made her pulse quicken. "Let me go," she said timidly. "Take me back to France."

She instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say; his sharp intake of breath proved it. He closed his eyes, the intimidating gaze alleviating some of her tension. "I fear I cannot do that," he murmured softly.

"Why not?" Her eyes gazed deeply into his, as crystalline tears fell from them. "You know that I could never hurt you, Erik. You know I could never try to murder you…"

Erik mindlessly wiped away the saltine drops with the back of his right hand. He regarded her declaration with visible consideration. A long pause ensued before he finally answered her.

"Do I?" he asked in a guttural whisper. "Do I truly know that, Christine? We all wear masks, my dear. Whether they are merely physical obstructions to conceal our external scars or the ugliness from within, we cannot hide the truth from those who can see beyond our carefully composed façade." A deep sigh escaped him. "And the mask of virtue is the most deadly deception of all."

Christine stared at him, dumbfounded. His obscure statement unnerved her. The significance of his morose words struck a cord deep within her soul, making her realize that even though he was on the verge of throttling her, he would never find it in himself to do so. And that made her allow him to touch her, loom over her.

His cold fingers gently traced over the smooth contours of her forehead, teasing the loose tendrils of her hairline. Sudden, unknown sensations jolted through her, making her heart pound madly. What was he doing? she wondered. How could he cause her to falter like this—sway like a woman prone to the vapours? But of course Erik had that sense of charm, didn't he? He could make her faint without removing his mask—his feral eyes were enough. And yet they also held a sense of intrigue within their tawny depths.

"What do you plan to do to me?" She inclined her head, and murmured against his chest.

"Return the same courtesy that you have shown me." Squeezing her hands, he continued, "How does it feel to be on the receiving end? Imagine my pain when I watched you hold my life in your hands and torment my soul with your childish cruelty."

Christine looked down at the floor for a moment and then returned to her probing stare. "I never meant to hurt you, Erik," she recurred in a soft, yet bittersweet tone. "You and Raoul made everything so complicated…"

"Complicated?"

She did not miss the incredulous glare. Forcing aside her tears, she answered, "Yes, _complicated_! You made me wear that ring, telling me that if I were to marry I would never hear my angel again. And Raoul… Raoul was so determined to hunt you down and do God knows what…" Her dark hair swayed in obvious anger. "Both of you were at each other's throats before you even met! How could I side with either of you when I was torn between you?"

"I taught you to sing, to live and give your soul to music, Christine," Erik returned with unmatched hatred, his icy hands holding hers in a vise-like grip. "And what did you do? You scurried off like a mindless trollop with a simpleton! That boy could never match me as a man. He's weak, Christine. Weak enough to allow you to slip through his fingers."

Christine bit her lower lip in irritation, her eyes seething with visible fury. "Raoul did not realize that I'd left the estate; he was in Marseilles when I found the article."

"As I've said, weak." Erik leered. "So weak and powerless to even stop a figment of man's simple imagination. It's a pity that you're infatuated with such a brainless man."

"And you are nothing but a man, too, Erik," she chided, staring into the dark slits of his cracked mask. "And one day you'll be judged for your cruelty."

Erik loomed over her, leaning close enough to hear her staggered breath caress the unfeeling porcelain. He felt her stiffen under his inspection, and smiled. "Yes, but until that day comes, _you_ will be here with me, suffering…just as I am."

Christine opened her mouth to speak but felt him relinquish his hold on her. She watched, as he turned away; and in a few strides, opened the door. His cold, luminous eyes studied her for a moment and then vanished like a vapour, as if quenched by a pail of icy water.

She heard the door slam behind him, the tiny key locking her within the room once more. She was a prisoner once again. Wait, her troubled mind interjected. Wasn't she always a prisoner? In some form or other, she had always been a captive. Whether by Erik's invisible chains of vengeance or the stilted rules of propriety society constructed, she would always be bound to one of them. There was no escape.

She fell to her knees and cradled her arms in despair. It was impossible to have a decent, civil conversation with him. How could she when he always said something to anger her? Did he enjoy seeing her upset? Did he bask in the knowledge that he'd hurt her with his cruel words? She didn't know.

Her head ached, her joints stung when she moved them. Erik was right once again: she had overexerted herself. And now she would feel the effects of her foolish actions soon enough. However, she would not follow his suggestion of lying in bed. No, she would sleep on the cold floor before she gave in to his advice.

A heavy sigh escaped through her clenched teeth as she wiped the remnants of dried tears away. She scolded herself for crying in front of him—again. God, she was nothing more than a weak cipher in his eyes. How could she expect to make him see that she was not so weak, not so spineless? He tore her resolve away before she had a chance to face him.

She rubbed her aching temples and carelessly glanced at the window. Moonlight radiated through the dark panes, it's insipid beams illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.

Despite her sour mood, Christine could not help but smile. A faint memory of a poem on being often rebuked, yet always returning to the problem echoed within her mind. For if all seemed bleak and on the verge of failure, persevering and having a deep conviction in the task at hand could still shine through and turn the tides, bringing unequivocal joy back into one's life.

She had to trust in herself and not give up—not give in to failure. There was too much at stake.

Christine's constant thoughts upon her reunion with Raoul plagued her mind. She massaged her aching temples. It was not just her longing to return home, but she also had to save an imperfect angel from himself, an angel who was nothing more than a man. And she would do so, even if she died in the process…

…

Erik stood against the wall, its cold uneven exterior pressing against his back. Regardless of his discomfort, he would not move. Like a statue he would remain in his icy pose, suspended from the rest of the world.

His hands clenched in anger, his amber eyes gleaming with a hellish light. A dark, unruly strand of hair fell against his mask and he hastily shoved it away. He despised how his hair would not remain in place, hated the fact that he had nothing to bind it back with. His hat was lost somewhere amidst the train wreckage, or even possibly floating somewhere in the damned lake. Wetting it down would only be a temporary comfort, and he refused to apply water to the unruly strands every hour.

His hands raked through the dense black tendrils, forcing him look at the adjacent wall. But he did not see it. He only saw Christine and her deceitful visage, which made him mutter an oath in Persian.

God, she unnerved him, made him act without reason. He lost control whenever they argued. It was like adding fuel to the fire, the reaction holding dire consequences. It was bad enough to have her whine about returning to the boy, but this, this sudden act of defiance clearly set him on edge. When did she develop the audacity to defy him?

Although he would not admit it to himself, he admired her daring spirit—to an extent anyway. She was not a little girl fresh from the schoolroom anymore. No, she was a woman now, even though she still acted like a child at times. But it was that childish innocence which first compelled him to watch her, protect her, and guide her. It was also that childish innocence which almost destroyed him.

Christine was like a coin with two faces: one benevolent and loving, the other cruel and merciless. She was right when she said that he and the vicomte placed in her a difficult position. Both hungered for her love and acceptance while she longed to be free of both of them. She did not want to choose, she wanted to remain unaffected by the outcome of her decision. Either way, her choice would eventually destroy her, and it had.

"You chose poorly, _my_ _dear_," he muttered under his breath. "Why could you not see beyond my mask? Why could you not see me as a man?"

With tentative hands, he carefully removed the cracked mask and held it. Long fingers traced the edge of the mask, lightly examining the crack with their calloused ends. He regretted that he only brought one mask, forgetting to think of the possibility of exposure. There would be no cellar to hide in then. People would discover him and lynch him for his deformity—especially in this country.

He shoved the thought aside and focused again on Christine. Her defiant air was unexpected but it would certainly be interesting to see if he broke her of it. Like his cracked mask he would watch her falter, watch her turn away from him like she did when she first gazed upon his hideous visage.

Shaking his head in uncertainty, he adjusted the mask over his cursed face and regained his composure. His eyes trailed to Christine's closed door. He had locked her in like a prisoner. And yet, he did not treat her cruelly; he saved her life. His debt to her was repaid.

An hour had passed as the deep chimes of the sitting-room clock reverberating throughout the sleeping household. Erik pulled himself away from the wall, ready to return to the room and do battle with his captive lioness.

Instead of the expected scream or projected vase at his head, he noticed the idle figure on the floor. Rolling his eyes in dismay, he kneeled and carefully cradled Christine's limp form against his emaciated chest.

It was the second time in two nights that he had to pick her up from the floor. Did the poor chit sleep in the vicomte's chateau like this? Her maids must have despaired when they assumed their mistress chose the floor instead of a comfortable bed.

He gave her a rueful smile. "You never cease to amaze me," he murmured in earshot, knowing that she did not hear him or comprehend his teasing words.

Erik placed the sheets over her and felt of her forehead. Finding no fever, he moved away from her side, seating himself in a chair. He crossed his long legs and fell against the chair's back.

Just a few hours of sleep, he thought—just a few hours before he finalized the rest of his plan… He inwardly grinned. Very soon he would have everything he needed to divide Christine and her beloved vicomte forever. It was so enjoyable to be the wedge between their happiness.

…

**Author's Note: I know, I know, and I'm sorry that it took forever to write this chapter! Nineteen hours of college is not fun, believe me! And it's the crappy classes that nobody wants, but is required. (Sighs.) Plus I've been sick with the flu, and other things have occupied my time, too. **

**But those are not the only reasons for my update being so late. To be honest, I didn't know where to end this chapter! I had a tremendous writer's block for three weeks. So instead of planning it out, I just typed what came to mind. I hope it's not too jumbled. Also, I must confess that my previous updates were rather frequent, which is unusual. It usually takes me about a month to finish a chapter, but you can expect it to be a long one. Sorry for my unending prattle, it takes me forever to get to the bloody point… As you can see in the other chapters… **

**The poem mentioned near the end of the chapter is "_Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning_" by Emily Brontë. Originally, I was going to use Emily Dickinson's "_There's A Certain Slant of Light_," but most of her works had not yet been published—mainly for the reason that she was still alive during this time. And besides, I believe Brontë's poem would have captured this specific moment better than Dickinson's. But that's my take on the matter… You can expect to see more allusions and hidden things throughout this story! **

**Also, I need to clarify that Erik's appearance should be almost accurate with Leroux's descriptions. I want to keep him as such. I mean I find him more attractive as a living corpse—as he was originally intended to be—than a guy who only has a small disfiguration. And now that I think of it, Christine's appearance does contrast a little with the one in the novel. But if my memory serves me Leroux only describes her being fair as a child. Perhaps I have a little leeway there. ) **

**However, I did revise the part in the prologue about Erik's nose. Other than that they will stay the way I've described them. Mainly because that's how I view them in my mind, and it would be very difficult for me to deviate away from that image… Nevertheless, I will stay true to Leroux—or at least try to. **

**Thank you again for all of the wonderful reviews!**


	5. Chapter Four: A Moment's Reflection

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Four.

_Upper Silesian __Border__, __Russia_

The sun's warming rays brightened the room, filling it with a sense of security. Its atmosphere was peaceful, almost tranquil. Opposed to last night's nasty little drama, dawn held a subtle promise of order.

Christine massaged her aching temples. She could barely remember the events from the previous night, her memory vague from her peaceful slumber. Oddly enough, she found herself safely tucked under the sheets, warmed by their soothing enclosure.

She shook her head ruefully, a few dark tendrils cascading against her wan cheeks. Erik had somehow substituted her uncomfortable settings on the cold floor for a sufficient bed. It was the second time he had taken the consideration to give her comfort.

A delicate smile touched her lips. Whether he wished to admit it or not, he could not hide his chivalrous manner. He could play the part of a heartless bastard with efficiency, but could not hide the truth behind his deceptive façade. Perhaps a good, decent man was buried beneath Erik's thick exterior—buried somewhere underneath the impenetrable layers of ice.

It was merely the question of finding him…

A heartfelt sigh escaped her as she pulled away from the wrinkled sheets. Christine glanced at her rumpled attire and frowned. She would have to change into one her better dresses. Her hands idly traced over the creased fabric, feeling the wears and tears that had exceeded its delicate surface.

Her dark brows furrowed when she noticed a small hole on the right side of the train. The hem was unraveling on one side and a few beads were missing from her bodice. Raoul would be ashamed to know how careless she had been with his mother's possessions. It made her heart ache from the thought of him, his handsome face tainted with disgrace.

"Oh, Raoul," she murmured under her breath as uninvited tears fell from her reddened eyes.

Christine inclined her head in regret—regret, which pierced a small hole within her heart. She felt the silent anguish pour from the tiny puncture, leaving nothing but a hollow feeling of despair. So, this was what it felt like to have regret, she thought miserably.

She bit her bottom lip, forcing her mind away from the vivid, mental image of him. His boyish features and innocent childlike smile refused to leave her, tormenting her. God, she could feel his eyes upon her, which bore into her flesh with their arctic gaze.

Even if his handsome image faded from her memory, she would always remember his eyes. The deep blue at the center reminded her of the sea, while the outer rink was a light shade of indigo. Her eyes dimmed in comparison to his. To be honest, it was one of the few things she remembered of him from childhood.

His blonde hair remained the same, but his fair skin was altered, contradicting his existence as an aristocrat. His life at sea was, to some extent, looked down upon by many of his peers. Noblemen did not openly reveal signs of labour; they concealed it. However, being the second son of a comte, it was acceptable. The heir was regarded with more responsibility and burdened with keeping the best appearance.

Raoul was never required to be more than his station demanded, but he still had to follow the rules of convention, albeit less eloquently. And that meant that he had to hold the de Chagny honour. Although his brother was forced to carry the family name, Raoul could not do anything to tarnish that centuries' reverence, even if it meant causing a scandal—namely, by marrying a common girl, an actress.

And yet he defied the rules, going against his brother and straining their close, brotherly relationship. Philippe was against their engagement, threatening that if he had to personally put an end to it, he would. The Comte de Chagny could ill afford to tarnish the family name, even if it meant destroying his brother's happiness.

Christine closed her eyes from the horrid memory of their argument. She did not have to see it to know it occurred; Raoul's forlorn expression confirmed it. She knew Philippe was a good man and wanted what was best for his family. He was like a second father to Raoul after theirs had sadly passed away. He cared for Raoul; she knew that. But society made the comte go against their brotherly bond, damaging it for the sake of principle.

Her ivory hands clasped the beaded material of the bodice, her fingertips tracing over the delicately sewn beads. This dress had literally been through hell, she realized. First, by the arduous journey to the Opéra, and then, her unfortunate abduction… She refused to ponder on the rest. Suffice to say this gown was in heavy need of repair.

A tense groan escaped her. The rest of her clothing was lost; her only garb clinging to her sore back. She had obtained a small consolation for the wrinkled tea gown, though. Aurelia was kind enough to lend her a meager nightgown during her sickness. It was a pity she did not use it last night. Of course, her anger and pride stopped her. She would not find comfort when she needed to make a point, even if she rued it afterward.

She caressed the tiny glass beads tenderly, smiling as she did so. She would mend this gown and have it the way it was before she left the manor. Raoul would never know, she thought.

A frown suddenly replaced the smile. Raoul. Her heart throbbed from the thought of him. Guilt consumed her when his smiling image melded to one of utter disappointment. He would be furious with her when she returned—if she returned. Somehow she doubted her homecoming would be any time soon. Erik would see to her captivity. Whether by binding her in chains or restraining her by his cruel threats, she was his captive. And ironically, she chose to be.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," Christine found herself murmur as she wiped another stray tear from her eye. "I have to do this, and I truly believe you would understand if you were in my place…I cannot leave him like this." She paused for a brief moment, trying to find the correct words. "I am indebted to him…" her voice betrayed her, muttering the pitiful excuse.

Her mind found the silent omission logical, but her heart balked at the proclamation. Instead of focusing upon saving another, any other woman in her position would have escaped the first chance she got. She felt that way at first, and the temptation was great, but somehow she could not bring herself to go through with it.

Christine chewed her lower lip. She had already had this mental discussion. It was fruitless to reflect on it again. What benefit would she get out of it? No one was here to berate her, give her advice. And for that, she felt lost, uncertain about her actions.

She pulled herself away from the bed, her tiny hands clinging to the sides of her wrinkled gown. Inclining her head, a few black tendrils caressed her pasty cheeks. She sighed, brushing the irritating locks away from her face. She could not procrastinate a moment longer. Her _guardian_ would be waiting.

...

"He's not here?" Christine asked, a bewildered expression striking her pale features.

Aurelia shook her golden head. "He left shortly before dawn." She returned to kneading the dough before her. "I thought he told you that… He said that he would return this evening."

Christine glanced at the open window. "Do you know where he went?"

"I'm afraid not," the matron refrained. She gave Christine a tentative smile. "However, I do believe he wanted to reserve a seat for the next train. He was rather apprehensive this morning."

The tone within Aurelia's voice revealed much, too much. But of course Christine could not expect less from her hostess. She gave in to Aurelia's light comment. It was difficult to envision Erik being anything but his cold, resolute self. However, Aurelia's description of him made less one-dimensional; made him more human.

Christine wiped a tired hand across her face. "He didn't tell me anything. We…" She paused, careful of what she should say. "We retired early last night," she amended.

Aurelia nodded. "I see," she muttered, and returned to her work.

An awkward silence fell over them, as if compelling the futile conversation to end. Christine watched the matron knead the dough, her long slender fingers molding the thick substance into a firm, powdery sphere. It was odd to watch the simple, everyday task with such amusement, or rather, with discontent.

How many times had she come across women doing the same thing? Not only by making bread, but also keeping a household in order, managing the children, seeing husbands off to work—a loving expression within their eyes as they watched their spouses leave.

It was every woman's dream to have a home and family. And yet, she could not see that in her life. After her vow, she realized that personal desires would have to wait until she could help Erik, but how? How could she accomplish such a daunting task? Where would she begin? The myriad of unanswered questions made her mind ache.

She barely noticed Anja when she entered through the kitchen door, a jubilant expression upon her childlike face.

"Christine!" Anja exclaimed excitedly. "It is wonderful to see that you are awake!" She clasped her hands, controlling her excitement. "I trust you slept well?"

Christine glanced at her, coming out of her reverie. "Good morning, Anja." A warm smile touched her lips. "Yes, I did. M_erci_."

"Anja, why don't you take Christine outside," Aurelia suggested, wiping her floury hands on her apron. "It is such a lovely day." She turned her attention to Christine. "That is, if you feel like going. I would not want to cause your illness to return."

"Actually, I feel quite well. I believe a tour of the countryside would be wonderful." She made no effort to hide her smile.

Anja adjusted her apron, hiding her excitement. "You'll love the view! Wildflowers have covered the valley," she grinned. "Besides, you said you wanted to see Russia's beauty. Why not when you have the opportunity? God only knows when we'll have another day like this."

The former prima donna could only smile and take the girl's offered hand. She closed her eyes as she stepped through the door's threshold and into the light for what seemed the first time in ages. Placing a hand to the level of her eyes, she took in the brilliant view. Like an image from an artist's canvas, the scene before her came to life, expressing a multitude of emotions and feelings.

Anja was not lying; the rolling landscape was covered with a variety of wildflowers, each different, unique. A botanist would deem this paradise, and she could not agree more. The scenery reminded her of home. It was somewhat strange to see that two different countries held a few similar qualities. It almost made her ache to be home.

When was the last time she set foot upon her homeland? The memory of it had almost eluded her. Her father had been alive then, and in better health. Before Professor Valérius had discovered her father, both enjoyed the other's company. And even though they were poor, they still had each other.

But her father was no longer with her, and she would have to make the journey back home on her own. Raoul would be with her, of course. But it would not be the same without her beloved papa, nor would it ever be.

Daaé wanted to return to Sweden before his death, but Fate had kindly intervened. His health had deteriorated over the passing months, and on a cold day in autumn; he passed away, leaving Christine with a trusted Mamma Valérius. It was not a bad arrangement, far from it. However, it was not what she wanted. Her father's final wish, she knew, was to be buried within the sacred earth of his homeland. However, it was not to be. Even Mama Valérius could not supply the funds to cover the funeral cost.

And so with a heavy heart, Christine watched, helplessly, as a pair of gravediggers set the peasant's coffin into the dark confines of the cold tomb, where it would lay—the musician trapped within, playing no more…

Forcing her morose thoughts aside Christine focused upon the landscape. Truly, Russia was beautiful. She wondered if other lands were as compelling, as striking as this. Raoul would have loved to have seen this…

As a child, her fiancé loved the outdoors. For a noble's son he certainly held a deep respect for something as useless as a warm spring day and staying idle without care. Of course, that was long ago, and it appeared that her love had more on his mind than wasting time counting the stars. He was a comte now, and had new responsibilities—responsibilities he did not expect.

Prior to her abduction, she noticed the toll it had taken on him. At times, he would lock himself in his brother's study, working like a madman. He lost sleep; the dark circles under his blue eyes gave away the evidence. He did not need anything else to trouble him—after the events of the Opéra and the tragic loss of his brother, he needed time to grieve.

She watched Anja lead her down a path that looked as if it emerged from a Grimm tale. The small trail was wide enough for a person to travel upon, and extended to the butte of a hill in the distance. Small outlines of thatched roofs towered where the dirt road ended, revealing that another tiny village lay close by.

Christine held her breath. Although the scene was lovely, she felt as if her eyes were blinded by a false hope of contentment.

She found it useless to further her suspicions on what Erik was doing. It was better to not ask questions and enjoy the temporary reprieve, which had been gracefully given to her. God only knew she needed it.

Smiling faintly at Anja, Christine nodded with silent approval, taking the girl's offered hand. "Are we going to the village?" she asked, failing to keep up with Anja's hurried steps.

"No. Just over the moor," Anja murmured. A frown appeared on her gaunt face. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Noticing the slight concern in Anja's eyes she decided not to reveal her exhaustion. "I'm just tired, Anja." She faintly smiled. "It's nothing, really. Don't vex yourself on my account."

The faint trace of worry did not fully leave Anja's solemn face. "Are you sure? We can stop and rest for a few minutes."

Christine waved the suggestion away with a dismissive hand. "If I can survive the crowded streets of Paris and horrible prima donnas, then I can survive this, _non_?"

Anja grinned. "Is Paris that bad? I would think a city of its importance would be nothing less than magnificent." She gave Christine a look filled with reservation. "At least it has life to it. This village is probably just a row of buildings compared to what you're used to…" Anja laughed, despite her disgruntled voice. "I wish I could see it."

"Perhaps you will one day." Christine placed a comforting hand on Anja's shoulder. "It's interesting when you first visit Paris. I can remember the first time I viewed the Notre Dame Cathedral." Her eyes held a slight hint of mirth. "I believed it to be a castle with a large moat surrounding it. But in fact it was merely a river."

She heard her companion laugh, and decided to defend her belief. "I was barely seven. I'm sure that can account for my childish ignorance."

"I would probably believe the same thing. Compared to what I've seen here, I'm sure Paris is beyond compare." Anja looked at the snowcapped mountains in the distance. "To be honest, I haven't had the chance to see St. Petersburg either…"

Christine noticed regret behind her friend's words. She knew that most people with limited means never had the opportunity to see or visit other places. Their lives would be spent within the boundaries of their homeland, living from the cradle to the grave without even realizing what lay beyond their borders.

She felt compelled to argue with Anja, but knew the girl was right. How could she give her friend false hope when she herself had no control of the direction of her life? It was as if Fate tormented her with deceptive illusions, a beautiful fabrication of what actually lay before her.

Her bout of liberty would soon end, and then she would have to face the cruel reality of her situation. She felt stripped, cheated. It was like giving a thirsting man a drop of water while he suffered in the bowels of Hell, then refusing to offer more. It would have been better had she not felt freedom at all. Perhaps she would not have a small ounce of hope that Erik would relent and give up his absurd notion of vengeance.

The last possibility was not likely. And it was there that she would help him, maybe even before he finalized his ruthless plan. She shuddered from the thought.

He never elaborated on his idea of just revenge, but his sinister allusions were enough to convince her. She knew that his dark designs of separating her from Raoul were merely the opening to a first act in a play solely written by Erik himself.

She did not have to consider how the play would follow out—the final outcome would end in tragedy, unless she took action and stopped the traumatic events from happening. She could do that; she was confident in her ability. Had she not stopped such adversity before? Now, if only she could formulate a plan to counter his…

"Look!" Anja exclaimed, shattering Christine's thoughts.

The sight before her was enough to banish her sketchy plans of reconciliation. The valley and mountains fused within the distance, giving the observer a panoramic view of nature at its finest. The rocky surface of the mountains was a dark shade of violet, topped with untainted white snow. The valley surrounding the stony crags was plagued with a myriad of wildflowers, each unique of colour and shape. The valley teemed with verdant beauty that would make _Monsieur_ Monet burn with envy. It made her smile from the thought.

"It's beautiful." She turned to Anja, seeing the girl beam with subtle pride. "I am truly envious of you, Anja."

Anja's smile with replaced with a frown, her dark brows creasing together. "Why is that?"

Christine could not hide her grin. "You have this view to greet you every morning. Paris could never hold such beauty. My homeland dims in comparison to this. I never thought anything could be more beautiful than Sweden." She shook her dark mass of curls. "You have proven me wrong."

"I'm sure your country is just as lovely," Anja added cheerfully. Glancing at the sky, she asked, "Would you like to see our village? I'm sure that you would like a little entertainment during your stay."

"You know, I would like that," Christine giggled, following Anja's lead.

...

The tiny village bustled with activity. Small makeshift stands were teeming with a variety of goods, most uttered in sums she could not understand. Loose Russian chatter flowed throughout the crowd as people walked by each other, their simplistic, everyday lives displayed in a moving portrait of colour.

Christine observed the unfamiliar faces and tried to match personalities with them. Most of the people, she noted, were common folk—far from the illustrious gentry which were found in books.

From what she understood of the country, all were under the rule of a powerful tsar and controlled in districts by wealthy nobility or acclaimed royalty. Princes from powerful families could be distantly related to the tsar, and still hold enough power and influence to control a mass of people.

She somewhat resented the fact that people were limited to make decisions that concerned their personal lives. Of course, she had to confess that France was no better. Even though people could somewhat choose their lifestyle, they were still thrust in an appropriate caste fitting their station. Free will was certainly an illusion.

Her morose thoughts were diverted away from the evils of social order to the marvelous exotic scene before her. Rugs, which could only be imported from Middle Eastern shores were carefully displayed or rolled for the convenience of space. Various fruits and vegetables were presented, revealing their luscious promise of sustenance. Fine silks hung from lines which surrounded a dress shop—apparently administered by the village tailor.

But what surprised her most of all was the abundance of icons—holy portraits and scenes of the Christian saviour. Portraits of the Virgin—most holding the embodiment of the hallowed lady and her son—were among the throng of painted faces. Even the apostles and revered saints were available. It was strange to look at a sea of maudlin faces, each with an air of solemnity. The holy figures in Paris' cathedrals looked less pious, haughtier.

Christine inwardly frowned; her sense of faith was somewhat misplaced at the moment.

Glancing at her beaming compatriot, Christine asked, "What are we going to do here?"

"Mother asked me to purchase a few things if we went to the village, and I also have to collect my brother."

"Brother?" Christine's dark brows creased together in visible confusion. "You have a brother?"

Anja looked at her, slight amusement played upon her features. "Yes. However, I believe you haven't been properly introduced to him." Her voice took on a lighter note. "He has been curious about you and your guardian." She smiled, shaking her head. "He wanted to talk to you, but Mother forbade him until you were able to leave the bedroom. As for wanting to speak to…"

Anja did not need to continue with her statement. Christine knew that she was going to mention Erik's name, but stopped out of a last minute sense of propriety. She could not thank the girl enough for her discretion. Others had not been as gracious.

"I know," Christine murmured, clasping her hands together in an insecure fashion. "Erik can be somewhat…intimidating. When I first met him in person, he frightened me," she confessed. "I know that it was very cruel of me, but I was so afraid of him—how he looked…"

"I admit I was a little wary of him at first. But when he was with you, I knew that his appearance was only that—a physical attribute." Anja stole a glance at Christine's plaintive expression. "May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

Taking a deep breath, she blurted, "Why does he wear _it_? Did something bad happen to him?"

Christine absently touched her cheek with a hand, her numb fingers gracing the cold skin. She noticed the concern pouring from Anja's eyes, and silently admonished herself. She should be used to people asking questions about Erik's appearance. Of course, she had grown used to his obscured features, no longer thinking about the horror that lay behind it.

"Yes," Christine whispered. "That is why he wears the mask," she murmured as she glared at the crowd before her. Turning to Anja, she said, "Anja, he has been through so much in his life. Please, don't think of him as being anything but an ordinary man."

But he wasn't ordinary man; she scolded herself. No matter what she said, she could not say that Erik was a normal person, who, with some sick twist of fate, lost his right to dwell among the race of man. But her answer would have to do, for now. She did not feel like sharing the details of Erik's tragedy with anyone, not even with this sweet, understanding girl.

"Trust me, Christine, I believe I know what you mean about appearance," her voice was solemn, her impish eyes downcast.

Anja's cryptic words hung over Christine's mind like a pall. The gravity within her voice could not be mistaken. Sweet _Jes_, what had caused the pain that reflected within Anja's grave words? Christine could not fathom.

No matter the temptation of asking what caused her friend pain, it was best to stay silent, especially on this matter. "Anja—"

"We're here," Anja interjected, pointing to a small cottage.

The structure before them was built well over a century ago. With its dilapidated walls and cracked windows it was on the verge being condemned. Of course, the small assortment of shrubberies and colourful plants in the flower boxes contradicted such censure.

Anja rapped on the door with the rusted doorknocker as she patiently waited for someone to answer her call. She looked at Christine, her face devoid of warmth. Her eyes were distant, but held a small plea for her guest not to turn away from her. The silence between them was disheartening.

The whitewashed door creaked open; a soft beam of firelight escaped its threshold. With a quiet nod Anja stepped in, leaving Christine to timidly follow.

"Well, bless my soul! Anja, it's good to see you!" an old, feminine voice greeted.

"Varsa," Anja gave a humble nod to the aged proprietress, and then looked at the boy at her side. "I hope you have behaved today, Dimitri."

"You need not worry, Anja. I have helped Varsa with her quilting." He displayed his meager handiwork, the thickly stitched patches closely aligned, almost accurate.

"I see that." A burgeoning smile reached her lips. "It's beautiful, _Mitya_."

"Dimitri's work is beyond the skill of one my age," Varsa commented smoothly then looked at Christine as she entered the room. "And who might you be, _mademoiselle_?"

Christine's discomfort eased with the old woman's gentle smile and good sense of speaking other languages. "You speak French?" She could not hide her astonishment.

Varsa gave her a bemused look. "Well, of course. Many people in Russia speak French instead of their native language." She regarded her bewildered guest with a hint of amusement. "Although I must confess it's not for everyone, and thus many revert to their native tongue. French is more common in the larger cities; small villages tend to disregard the will of being _civilized_." She placed her hands on her lap. "Now, who are you, my dear?"

"My name is Christine Daaé, _madam_." She gave a ladylike curtsy, her curls spilling over in tiny dark streams of sepia.

"A lovely name for a lovely face," Varsa concurred. "Are you…from around here?"

Noticing the subtle suspicion in the woman's inquiry, Christine decided to indulge her with the briefest explanation. "I'm traveling, actually. It was time for me to see the world, and I thought that visiting other countries would be interesting. So far, I must confess that I envy the beauty of your country."

"And are you traveling alone?" Varsa's iron-grey eyebrows slanted in question.

"No. A good friend of mine is my companion on this journey." Her words close to the truth.

The older woman seemed to agree with Christine's answer, taking it as she would. With a curt nod, she added, "That's very good, my dear. I'd hate to see a young thing like you get hurt." She folded her side of the quilt. "Too many blackguards out there who would nothing more than slit a man's throat as to say hello.

Christine nodded in agreement. "My guardian would see no harm come to me." At least he hadn't so far…

"He must be very protective." A faint hint of mischief glittered in her ancient eyes.

She could not lie to the older woman's oblivious declaration. "That he is," she added, much to her chagrin.

A comfortable silence settled within the condensed room. Anja crossed over to the slumped form of her brother and moved the quilt away from his lap. Offering a gentle hand, she helped him out of the wooden chair and gathered a parcel by his side.

Her hands flitted over the boy's disheveled appearance, tugging the oversized cap away from his obscured face. "I swear, Dimitri. I need to take a pair of shears to that overgrown mop of yours! Your hair is almost as long as mine," she gave an exasperated sigh.

Dimitri pulled away from his sister's towering figure. "Anja…" the boy paused. "You _know_ I won't cut it," his beleaguered voice was tainted with frustration.

Anja dropped her hands, silently expressing defeat. "I'm sorry, _Mitya_. I forgot…"

Dimitri's frustration faded to grim forgiveness as he placed a soothing hand on his sister's arm. "It's not your fault, sister. I know how you seem to forget…" His mood changed as his silhouetted face turned to Christine. "Ah, _mademoiselle_; I am glad to see you well again…"

Nodding in recognition, Christine gave her addresser a soft smile. "Thank you. And it is a pleasure to meet you."

"And now it's time for us to return home. Dimitri?" Anja's eyes fell upon her brother.

"I'm ready," he murmured then turned to Varsa. "I will help you with your quilting tomorrow."

"There's no need, child. The festival is tomorrow, remember?" She gave him a curt wave of her gnarled hand. "I will not have you keeping me company while there's enjoyment to be had elsewhere. Besides, your mother promised that she would keep her old badger of a governess company."

Dimitri was about to argue before Anja intervened. "He will, Varsa. Don't worry about his presence here. I will make sure he does not regret missing quilting with you." Her gaze turned to her brother. "And you, young man, are needed at home."

"Yes, Anja," he muttered like a scolded child.

Christine watched the old woman wave them on from the threshold. Giving a courteous nod to the proprietress, she followed Anja down the path. Her smile faded as she noticed, for the first time, Anja's younger brother.

The child had a limp; his left leg staggered with each step. She watched Anja attend the boy with a careful hand, only for it to be quickly discarded. His long, unkempt hair fell in loose, dark strands down his back, the dark colour of chestnut casting red highlights in the sunset. The worn cap obscured most of his face, the rest with his unruly hair. Why, though, was the question?

Shoving her thoughts away, Christine made her way to Anja's side. Giving the girl a small smile she said, "Thank you for taking me to the village."

Anja had the grace to blush. "It was nothing. I only hope that something interested you in this dreary village."

"I enjoyed the sights, the sounds," she counted off with her fingertips, "the people—everything."

"_Mademoiselle_, you truly like our village?"

Christine's attention fell to Dimitri's probing gaze, his dark blue eyes, quizzical. "Yes," she admitted hesitantly. "I was telling your sister earlier that I loved the valley and mountains. You have quite a lovely home, _Monsieur_ Akhmatova."

"Dimitri," he corrected. "You must call me Dimitri."

Christine nodded in agreement. "And you must call me Christine."

"Beautiful name," he murmured, "Christine." He let the word roll off his tongue; a ghost of a smile touched his pale lips.

Nothing was said between them on the walk home. Silence permeated the walk, making an amiable peace between them. Christine could not ask for more than the comfort of just walking and not having the obligation to strike up a conversation.

Her distilled peace was shattered the moment she stepped through the tiny threshold. A pair of hands seized her shoulders, the grip tightening with each staggered breath. She looked at Anja, and then to Dimitri, silently bidding them to leave. Their reluctant stares gave her heart a moment's pause before they obeyed her tacit command.

Erik glared at the retreating siblings before he acknowledged Christine. He felt her timid gaze pelt him with undisclosed fear. Good. He wanted her to fear him. It was certainly better than her infantile anger.

"Where were you?" his gruff voice demanded.

Christine waited a moment, and then answered. "I was with Anja."

"That is apparent. What I asked was where?"

God, this man could be so unnerving. His questions were enough to upset her, but his condemning eyes infuriated her. "I saw the valley, and then I went to the village, if you must know. Don't worry, I did not try to run away," she derided.

"You would not be that foolish, Christine." His voice took on a deadly edge, its tone venomous. "Besides, where would you go when you have no money and no one to help you?" His voice mocked her. "You're trapped, _mon__ ange_."

She felt his fingers caress her captive shoulders, the sensation making her muscles tense. "Erik, please. Not here."

Her pleading eyes almost made him release her—almost. But years of hard-earned wisdom betrayed his sudden impulse. Oh, he would indulge her, allow her to save face by taking this in private, but her chastisement would not be any less lenient. She had left him without permission. That in its self was condemnable by a thrashing. Of course, there were always ulterior methods…

"We will finish this conversation later." His hands released her as he shoved her aside.

She could only watch in helpless anticipation as he preceded her down the dark corridor, silently forcing her to follow. A cold hand clutched hers as he pulled her to his imposing side. He gave her a moment's notice before he thrust her forward. "Now, I must see to a few things. Go into the parlour and be the jubilant little chit you are," he gently admonished her like a child, "don't disappoint me."

Christine closed her eyes, silently admitting defeat. There was nothing more she could to him—at least not now. Ah, but later… Oh, yes, she would receive a lecture that would make her ears burn from the heat of his angered words.

But such was the price of escape—if only for a short while.

...

"Did you enjoy yourself today, Christine?" Aurelia's light voice echoed with unmistakable anticipation.

"Yes, I did." Christine smiled and folded her hands in her lap. "I loved the valley, the village, the market—everything. Thank you for allowing Anja to show me around today."

Aurelia shook head. "It was no trouble. Besides, I needed her to go to the village anyway." Her dismissive expression changed to one of reservation. "Did you…did you meet my son?"

Christine quickly nodded. "Oh, yes. He's wonderful!"

"That he is," Aurelia agreed, her voice strangely tight. "He's so curious about the world—always asking questions. Dimitri is no doubt a bright young man, but—"

"Mother!" two voices said in unison.

Whatever Aurelia planned to say dissolved when her children moved to her side. Her maudlin expression melded to delight when Dimitri placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. "I have something for you, Mother," Dimitri giggled.

A golden brow arched in question. "Oh? And what would that be? If it's another spider…"

The boy gave her an impish grin. "It may be…" he chuckled as his grubby hand dove into a dirty trouser pocket and retrieved a piece of white linen. Dimitri smoothed the wrinkled fabric with his hands, folding it into a delicate square. He carefully placed it in her hand, not waiting for her comment. "A beautiful kerchief for a beautiful mother."

Aurelia traced over the soft fabric with her hands, noting the delicate stitches on its surface. "It's lovely, Dimitri. I shall always treasure it."

There was no mistake in the boy's contentment as he quietly made a seat by his beloved mother on the floor. Anja inclined her head, taking a seat next to Christine.

Christine watched Aurelia with her children, the same loving expression each held for the other almost made her weep. It was something she was denied. She barely remembered her mother; and when her father left her, she had no one, save a surrogate widow and a career at the Opéra.

In truth, she wanted a family. A doting husband and a house full of children would make her life complete. Being a sensation at the Opéra no longer mattered. Besides, it would be difficult to hold a place on stage and manage children at the same time. Raoul would also dissuade her from such a silly notion. Nobility and a life on stage did not coincide with each other.

"Christine?"

"Yes?" she answered automatically.

Anja gently smiled. "Your thoughts were elsewhere, I gather?" she lightly teased.

"I'm sorry." She turned her attention to the fireplace, not seeing the dancing merriment in her friend's eyes—embarrassed by her wandering thoughts.

"There's no need to apologize." Anja placed a comforting hand on her arm. "I'm guilty of the same crime."

"That you are!" Aurelia chimed in.

"No matter," Anja muttered. "What I wanted to know was if you wanted to go to the village festival tomorrow evening." She paused for a moment, allowing her words to settle into Christine's thoughts. "There are things to buy, to look at—it's wonderful! And the best thing is this year there will be fireworks!"

"Fireworks?" Christine asked gingerly. "Paris always has lovely fireworks at night, especially during the holiday season."

Anja watched the rapt expression on Christine's face, and grinned. "I bet they're beautiful."

"Oh, yes. They are," she murmured, her voice distant.

Concern filled Anja's eyes. "Do you miss Paris, Christine?"

Christine gazed at the firelight. "Yes, I do."

"But I thought you wanted to travel the world?" A dark brow wrinkled in confusion. "Do you wish to return to Paris so soon?"

Return to Paris. If only she could…

She carefully shielded her emotions, secretly afraid they would betray her. "I'm a little melancholy. I cannot help but miss a few familiar sites Paris has—but I do not wish to end my holiday so soon. What would I accomplish if I returned without seeing everything?" Her pert laugh concealed her true feelings. It would hopefully be enough to convince them without having to make further inquiries.

Anja complied with a silent nod. "It would be natural, I suppose. Although I doubt I would miss this place one I left it." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, would you like to go tomorrow? I mean you don't have to, but if you want you could stay as long as you wish. The festival begins in the evening, and does not end until dawn."

"Sounds like quite a festival," Christine laughed. Before she could consider what Erik would say, she conceded to Anja's request. "I would love to go."

"Wonderful! We'll leave around sunset. It is best to go during that time—for the fireworks and music."

"Music?" Christine did not hide her interest.

"And dancing, too! And there are usually many handsome men as well." Her eyes misted over from her words. "You may find one that interests you."

Christine read the subtle note in Anja's words. So the girl knew more than her tender years should. Of course, she _was_ a young woman, and youthful exuberance could embrace a beautiful fantasy instead of reality. Christine refused to destroy that image for Anja, however deceiving it may be. There would be no harm in holding on to a dream until it was time to let it go. Anja's time had not yet come to pass. Unlike hers…

"Perhaps," she said enigmatically. "But I only wish to have a good time while I'm here."

"You will," Anja vowed, "I will make sure of it."

The rest of the evening was comprised of simple talk and pleasures where Christine found that she was the center of attention. She was probed with a line of unending questions—most of which she could give a straight answer.

There were very few questions involving Erik.

Christine pulled herself away from the worn settee, her hands resting apprehensively on the wooden rim. She forced a smile to her pensive lips before saying good night. The small family nodded in acquiescence, as if acknowledging her pitiful display of contentment. The truth was she was anything but content. After she left the room there would be no one to save her from the inevitable wrath that Erik would gladly dispense. It was a fitting end to such a perfect day.

The walk from the parlour to her bedroom was short—only thirteen steps. And yet, it felt like thirteen miles. The long hall was engulfed in darkness, save for one small candle flickering in a wall sconce.

She stared at the small, fragile light as if it were a beacon in a terrible storm. The glass surrounding it was dirty from the escaping smoke. Nevertheless, the tiny flame chased a few lingering shadows into the corners of the hall. It was better than being consumed by the darkness—the darkness which Erik so loved.

Her condemned walk came to an end when she stood face to face with the closed entrance, the ebony door staring at her with apathy. The tiny brass doorknob was within reach. Christine forced herself to move, her fingers timidly closed around the knob's cold surface.

Her cowardice was unacceptable. Erik would laugh at her timidity. To think, that she was still frightened of him. Granted, that was the effect he wanted. Submission was the first thing he demanded of her, and then he would have his pleasure in breaking her will.

Christine quickly set her bitterness aside and opened the door. Her eyes searched the room for Erik only to find him sitting at the small table in the corner. She watched him write something on a wrinkled sheet of paper, the candle next to him dripping its melted wax on the paper. He muttered a low oath in a language she did not understand—most likely Persian.

Without thinking, she moved to his side and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. He did not tense or move in surprise from her intruding touch. Instead, he merely turned to her and acknowledged her presence with a curt nod.

Her hand abruptly left his shoulder, his rude greeting strangely upsetting her.

"You were expecting to surprise me?" he inquired as she turned away from him. Erik looked at her over his shoulder, his golden eyes gleaming with unprecedented amusement. "I could hear you outside."

"You wished to speak with me?" she asked stiffly, annoyed that his back still turned to her.

Erik folded the wax-stained papers, placing them in the inside of his waistcoat. "Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I did."

His nonchalant air upset her. Of all the… How dare he seek sport out of her discomfort! "Well," she muttered impatiently, "I'm ready to hear what you have to say."

"Ah, you believe that I'm going to lecture you?" his simple words teased her. "Why would I do that? Pray tell."

"Erik, I'm in no mood for your games. If you wish to shout at me, then do it. But please, stop with this act."

"Act? You believe this to be an act?" Erik's imposing figure loomed behind her. "My dear, this is _not_ an act. I assure you that what I plan to say will not be found in an actor's lines."

She expelled an exasperated sigh. "Then say it. I've waited for this all evening."

"Have you?" A dark brow arched in apparent amusement. "Well, I shall not keep you waiting." He turned to the small window, his pallid hands clasped behind his rigid back.

Christine could not help but glance at the tall silhouette, the white hands contrasting greatly against the darkness. Erik's hands were long, delicate. They reminded her of the hands of David, finely sculpted, without flaw—true beauty at its finest. A frown touched her dark brows. It was a pity the rest of him could not be as magnificent.

She remembered the days of her captivity when Erik would play for her. He would reluctantly pull the gloves from his hands and play without the harsh obscurity. Somehow the gloves seemed vulgar, as if they tainted the glory and splendour that represented his genius.

His long white fingers moved over the corners of her memory, playing the long forgotten melody in _Othello_. And then to her horror, she remembered the events that tied in with the music. She tore her eyes away from his daunting form, the image of his face tormenting her mind.

"Is something troubling you?" his melodic voice inquired.

"N—no," she managed to say.

Erik waved off the lie with a careless hand. "Very well then." He folded his arms over his chest and looked at her. "I understand that you plan to go to the village tomorrow?"

Christine gaped at him, her eyes widened with fear. "H—how did you know that?"

"I suppose the only legitimate answer would be that I have excellent hearing. That, and the fact you are only a few steps down the hall may account for something." His voice was tinged with sarcasm.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "I promised Anja that I would accompany her for the night."

"No, Christine—"

"But I promised her!" she argued. "How can I lie to her with everything she and her family have done for me—for _us_?"

"I did not say you could not go," he spoke to her as if she were a child. "Before you rudely interrupted me, I was going to say that you could not stay for the entire festival."

"You mean I can go?" she asked timidly, afraid that he would go back on his words.

"Yes. But only for an hour." His eyes bore into hers. "One hour, Christine. No more, no less."

Christine could not suppress a smile as her eyes held unshed tears. She forced herself to return to his side. Placing a hand on his arm, she murmured, "Thank you, Erik. Thank you for allowing me to do this. I truly appreciate it."

Erik glowered at her, his luminous eyes disdainful. "I give you nothing, Christine," he answered coldly. "Nothing. I am only repaying _Madam_ Akhmatova and her family for their kindness. Why would I ever concern myself with _your_ happiness? You never concerned yourself with _mine_."

He sighed. "At least I can have a moment's peace without your constant prattle." His face remained serious. "But remember, I want you here when your hour is over. If not… Well, I believe you know what will happen."

Christine nodded in understanding. She did not doubt the consequences if she broke her word. "I understand," she whispered.

"Good. Now go to sleep. You still need to recover your strength, especially for tomorrow."

She turned to the vacant bed and stared at the pressed sheets, a soft sigh escaping her. Today's events were indeed strange, but welcome nonetheless. She no longer feared the growing presence of Death; she even made a few friends, as for Erik… He was certainly unpredictable. Whether that was good or not she had yet to determine.

Nevertheless, he did have a kind side to him, albeit it was covered with an icy front. How could she have forgotten that? For so long she had hated him, hated the fact that he found it in himself to control her life. He still sought that sense of authority. Even when she was on the verge of dying, he demanded that she stay and fight the illness. How could she defy him, knowing that he would drag her sorry corpse out of the grave?

Ironic, she thought; a living corpse dragging a dead one out of a grave… The very idea of it was too disturbing, too macabre to envision. Perhaps Erik's cynicism was finally starting to wear on her resolve. She inwardly grinned at the thought.

"Erik?" she found herself whisper.

"What?" He glared at her, his expression harbouring annoyance.

She ignored his trite provocation as she stared at the hard contours of his chest and shoulders. Her gaze traveled to the visible curve of his jaw and lower lip. Christine's silent examination stopped at the edge of his mask, the hard porcelain was truly daunting, and yet it had a sense of awe to it. Of course, there was no splendour beyond its cracked surface…

Gathering her composure, she cautiously looked into the dark slits of the mask, seeing two golden spheres question her scrutiny. "Are you going to gape at me or ask a question?"

His impatience was rather amusing, almost childlike. "Erik, what I wanted to say was…thank you." Her gaze darted to the dark floor, a small flush spreading across her cheeks. "I know I have not shown you any appreciation for saving me. I would not doubt that you find me to be ungrateful, but I am grateful." Her eyes met his. "Thank you for saving my life."

Erik took a step towards her and gave her a frosty smile, freezing her visible gratitude. "Is that what you believe I did?" His cold words shattered her flesh, breaking the bone. He seized her arms, feeling them stiffen under his hold. His porcelain mouth callously graced her cheek as his harsh words fractured her mind. "How can I enjoy my revenge if you're dead?"

The question pierced her heart, leaving it to bleed unwanted regret for her childish naivety. A small frown appeared upon her sallow lips. "You're right," she muttered softly, then turned and made her way to the neglected bed, casting aside her foolish admiration and altruistic thoughts of saving him.

...

"Christine? I have a dress for you." Anja opened the door and allowed herself in.

Christine watched Anja from the mirror's reflection, the dress gently swaying in her timid arms.

"I'm sorry that we do not have anything other than this for you to wear." She grimaced at the dress. "Mother told me this would be the only dress that could possibly pass as fashionable."

Christine moved away from the mirror and relieved Anja of the garment. She permitted the dress to fall, allowing its full length to be exposed for censure. She smiled at the delicate, worn fabric and glanced at Anja. "It is truly one of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen." Her small fingers traced over the beaded fabric. "Your mother must treasure this."

"Mother told me it was a gift from her family on her seventeenth birthday. She wore it during a winter festival in a distant village." Anja said softly; her eyes slightly misty. "She said that it was one of the greatest moments of her life. In that dress she felt like royalty—like a true tsarina."

"Then I shall let nothing happen to it." Christine nestled the garment to her chest. "I feel honoured that your mother would relinquish such a priceless treasure to someone she barely knows."

Anja caught a beaded sleeve in her hand, the ice blue fabric sending chills throughout her palm. "We already consider you family, Christine," she reminded her. "You are the sister I always wanted." Her appreciation was unmistakable, transparent. "Thank you for coming with me tonight."

"I have the opportunity to see how many men you will have to ask for a dance," Christine gave her a furtive wink.

Anja batted away Christine's teasing remark. "Christine! You know very well that I will not have that many eyes on me—they will be on you."

Christine's smile faded. "Do you think so?"

"Of course! I mean look at you, you are foreign, beautiful, and you do have a sense of mystery to you. I would not doubt that you would charm every available male in the province." She shook her head, a smile on her face. "You'll have men vying for your attention!"

"But I don't want men vying for my attention. I have a fi—" She stopped herself; the horror in her expression was enough to reveal that she had made a mistake.

Anja stepped closer to a paling Christine. "What's wrong, Christine?" She took one of Christine's hands in her own, feeling the warmth fade. "What is it?"

"No—nothing. It's nothing, Anja," she lied.

"All right," Anja allowed, but her taut expression did not show belief.

Christine hugged the gown against her frail form, not paying attention to Anja's probing gaze. It was as if she shut out the world around her, living in her own fantasy. Her face was expressionless, her eyes robbed of the childlike light that made her human. The animated, carefree Christine was gone. In her place was a statue of concrete flesh.

It troubled Anja. Something within Christine's last words upset her, of that she was certain. But what was the question. She admitted she did not wish for men to flock to her. Was there some past incident where one had harmed her? If so, she could sympathize with her, knowing the feeling all too well. But that last word, before Christine cut it off, held the key.

A wayward thought crossed her mind. What if Christine's alleged holiday was something more…something more dark and sinister? What if she were abducted and forced to leave Paris without any hope of escape? What if Christine's guardian was actually her abductor? Anja shivered from the thought. Impossible. An abductor would not take the chance of exposure. Besides, the look in his eyes did not show distant concern; the worry was palpable, stinging to the touch. Her guardian truly cared for her, no abductor would be that concerned for their prisoner.

It was simply impossible.

"Christine," Anja whispered, clearing her dark thoughts away. "Why don't you sit down while I brush your hair?"

She did not have to persuade the silent woman to move. Like a machine, Christine obeyed without objection. Anja watched her friend's silent movements, Christine's stiff form sitting on the edge of the bed.

She looked a like a porcelain doll, cold and lifeless. Her china white face glistened in the sunlight, reminding Anja of a clean sheet of snow. Twin sapphires complemented the ashen complexion—Christine's blood red lips and dark hair finalized her incomparable beauty, making her the perfect model for the Grimm brothers' Snow White.

It would almost be considered sacrilege to disturb her.

And yet she had to. She had to break her friend out of this state of suspended animation. A doll was beautiful to look at and observe, but a lively one was more appealing.

"Christine," Anja murmured, grasping a lock of her friend's dark hair. "Christine, listen to me. Whatever is troubling you, know that you can tell me. I promise to help you in any way I can."

Christine looked at Anja with hollow eyes. "There is nothing to be concerned about." The bitter lie escaped her lips. "I just…remembered something that I wanted to forget."

"It must be terrible for you… I could not imagine what could harm someone like you, but the world is full of malevolence."

Anja spoke as if from experience. Christine silently berated herself. She was selfish to believe that her shortcomings were the only troubles in the world. Others suffered more than she had, and endured it with the strength and vitality that she would never possess. And in this case, Anja was certainly a better person than she. It was childish of her to subject her friend to this pitiful display of self-pity.

Pasting on a fake smile, she gently pulled the dress away from her chest. The gown was old, yes, and the fabric was a little out of date, but it was still a beautiful garment—more beautiful than she deserved to wear.

"This is truly a work of art, Anja. I am anxious to wear it."

The signs of reservation quickly left Anja's oval face. "I will help you dress then." She glanced at the window, noting the sun's position in the sky. "We will have to hurry before the celebration begins."

Christine agreed, and allowed Anja to fuss over her hair and dress. Anja refused to leave the wayward curls down, saying it would be more fashionable—and more beautiful—if it was pulled up with pins. She produced a small pearl comb for the back, setting into place.

"All right; you may look!" Anja exclaimed; her expression was a mask of pride.

The woman standing in the mirror gazed back at Christine, the listless blue eyes devoid of delight. A few black tendrils cascaded from the loose twist, sweeping against her bare shoulder. The dress gleamed in the dying sunlight, its indigo shade complimenting her pale complexion. Christine never felt more beautiful, not even when Raoul bought her that lavish violet evening gown. Nothing could compare to this elegant evening dress.

"You look like a true Russian princess, Christine," Anja beamed. "Mother was right about you wearing her gown—it does suit you."

"Thank you," Christine murmured lightly, tracing the beaded designs on the bodice. "It's beautiful."

Anja examined her own dress, smoothing away an imaginary wrinkle. "Do you believe this will do? I mean for tonight?"

The girl's lack of confidence warmed her heart. So many times she felt the same way at Anja's age. The age of adolescence was certainly one of the most difficult and trying stages in one's life. It was amazing that she even survived it. Of course, Mamma Valérius was there to give comfort and guidance about the strange feminine wiles teenage girls procured.

Christine examined the green dress, carefully assessing each trait of the gown. She gave her approval with a quiet nod. "I believe you shall have the attention of every gentleman tonight, Anja. You have only to smile and be yourself. Trust me; they will flock to you."

"I hope so," she muttered her under breath. "Mother says that I should know everything about a man before committing to anything more than friendship."

"Wise advice," Christine agreed. Pity she did not heed it when she should have…

"It would be best if we left now; it's already sunset. Besides, Mother is going to dote over us before we leave."

Christine followed behind her. "Is your brother ready?"

Anja looked over her shoulder. "He would wear yesterday's clothing if he could get away with it. Trust me, he'll be ready."

Anja's dry comment made her laugh. She could imagine boys and their desire of being clean—oil and water in its finest form, the two elements not suiting. Dimitri was no different, of that she had no doubt. But his hair… Why would he wish to hide his face with it? Most children loathed the bothersome tendrils, usually brushing them away from their ruddy faces. Of course, not all children were the same, she had to remember that.

The boy in question stood by the door, anxiously awaiting their arrival. "I was beginning to think you would never come!" he teased.

"And disappoint you? Come now, _Mitya_, surely you would not think less of me." Anja shuffled his messy hair, earning a muttered growl from him.

Christine smiled at the scene. It was a shame she could not have the same relationship with siblings. Being an only child did have its disadvantages.

"Christine?" Aurelia placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you wearing the dress?"

"I am." She blushed and meekly glanced at the floor. "Thank you for allowing me to wear it. It is truly beautiful."

Aurelia's smile widened. "And you look radiant in it." Her assurance was convincing. "Tell me, did Anja place the pearl comb in your hair?"

"Yes." Christine touched the priceless keepsake with a careful hand. "It matches the dress the perfectly."

"My mother bought it without my father's knowledge." She laughed at the memory. "He was just as surprised as I was when I found the comb! But he said nothing to my mother about it. I believe that he was too surprised to. Besides, he wouldn't take something away that made me happy."

"My father was the same way with me. He would rarely deny me anything," Christine's soft voice trembled.

As if sensing Christine's sadness, Aurelia placed a comforting hand on her arm. "He must have been a great man, and a wonderful father."

"He was." A tear escaped her eye. "I still cannot fully accept the fact that he's gone."

"I understand, my dear," Aurelia murmured. "It's difficult to let something you hold dear go. But I believe the dead wish for the living to move on and survive beyond such loss." Her hand squeezed Christine's arm. "And I wager, that at this moment, your father is proud of you. Let us enjoy the evening without regret."

Christine inclined her head in silent acceptance, and wiped a tear away from her cheek. She felt Aurelia leave her side as Dimitri opened the door, a swell of impatience plagued his small shoulders. "Come on, we'll miss the fireworks!"

"Young man, we have plenty of time before they begin," Aurelia gently reprimanded him. "After you and your sister take me to Varsa's you can spend most of the evening looking at them. Just remember, I want you back before midnight." She turned to Christine. "What time shall we be expecting you, my dear?"

Christine wiped her cheek with a sweaty palm. "I will be here before midnight as well." She did not wish to give the exact time for fear of suspicion. She had to make Aurelia and the others believe that nothing was out of place with her relationship with Erik.

"If you wish to stay out longer, you may," Aurelia offered. "I will not hold the same demands over you," she chuckled. "Besides, much can happen after the stroke of twelve."

Her meaning did not go misinterpreted. Aurelia was just as bad as her daughter; the subtle innuendos of gratification were too blatant to miss.

"All the same," Christine demurred, "I will be back before midnight."

"Very well," Aurelia sighed, dismissing the subject. "I believe it is time to leave." Her face turned to Dimitri. "It looks as if my son is ready to leave without us. Let us not give him that idea," she laughed.

After Aurelia bade them to enjoy the rest of the evening, Christine followed Anja and Dimitri through the gathering mass of people. It was no surprise that many would attend a village festival, especially with the tastes and delights that were only offered once a year. Both young and old alike enjoyed these simple pleasures, casting aside the idea of hard work and labour.

Children played various games, while the adults watched on or conversed about yearly wages or the latest gossip in Moscow—mainly about the new tsar and his policies.

"I tell you, Marusia, this new tsar could never be a great leader like his father…"

"But, Ivan, he has barely begun to be a leader. Surely you cannot condemn a man who has not had a chance to prove his worth…"

"Mark my words; he'll be another greedy wretch that cares for nothing but himself, and the Russian people will suffer for it."

"We'll see."

Christine glanced at the bickering pair, and silently shook her head. Politics, it seemed, was everywhere, even between husband and wife.

Her hour of merriment was consumed by tasting exotic foods, flirting glances, and a dance with a comely son of a wealthy merchant. Anja teased the prospective Leonid when asked Christine for a dance. "Surely you would not ask a true lady for a dance—you are not the most graceful dancer," she snorted, remembering a past incident.

Leonid dared Anja's anger by saying, "And the lady in question is still beside herself because of my failure, or is it because I did not ask you, Anja?" he teased her then looked at Christine. "Would you brave a dance with me, _mademoiselle_?" His grey eyes warmed with laughter. "I promise not to step on your toes."

His witty jest made her laugh. Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to lead her where the other dancers were. The strings of foreign instruments played in the background as the couples took their places, waiting for their moment to dance.

Christine held her breath as she felt Leonid lead her. "I hope you can guide me through this," she whispered, "I do not know this dance."

Leonid raked a hand through his sandy blonde hair, his eyes swelled with delight. "Really? Then that is good thing! You will not know when I miss a step." His hand reassured hers. "I will lead you; follow my steps and don't worry about the rest."

As soon as the other couples began Leonid led her through the dancing crowd, guiding her with innate certainty. Christine watched him as he successfully dodged another pair. She noticed, however, that his attention was not on the other dancers, nor on her—it was on Anja. She inwardly smiled. Her friend had an admirer and did not realize it. No wonder he used her to upset Anja—he was taunting Anja by making her jealous. Clever. Very clever.

Christine's amusement was brought to a halt when she missed a step, making her collide against him. He tried to balance her but to no avail. The fast-paced dance made both laugh before falling to the ground in a ruffled heap of satin and cloth. Both smiled at their folly, and watched the gathering crowd join in on their mishap.

Leonid pulled himself away from the ground, reaching for Christine's hand. "It appears that my dancing skills need a little practice," he laughed. "I apologize for my careless dancing, _mademoiselle_." His face contorted into a pout. "You will never dance with me again."

She placed a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm may not," she whispered, looking at a gaping Anja. "But Anja will!"

His expression became sober. "Do you think so?" his voice quavered, his eyes unsure whether to believe her or not.

"She will not, if you do not ask her." Her nails dug into his skin. "You best do so before she accepts another proposal."

"My God, you are right." He bowed slightly. "If you will excuse me, _mademoiselle_, it appears that I have a previous engagement.

Christine waved him on, smiling as he stumbled over his invitation for a dance. Anja's mouth opened slightly, revealing her surprise. She said nothing to his proposal, though. Instead, she nodded and took his offered hand.

"See, Anja," Christine murmured to herself, "you do posses the quality to attract a decent man."

Her pleasure abruptly ended when she felt someone tug the side of her gown. Turning, she met the looming gaze of a boy. The child could be no more than nine—ten at the most, but his eyes… God, they were strange, hypnotic. Erik's had the same effect, but this child's truly unnerved her, it was as if he were dissecting her soul with his searing gaze.

The lucid orbs held hers as he prattled on in a spout of jumbled Russian.

Christine tried to take the dress from his hands, but he refused to liberate the captive satin. "I'm sorry, I do not understand you," she said calmly.

Her discomfort eased when Anja came to her side. Her friend muttered something in Russian, making the enigmatic child release the gown. The boy glared at Anja, then looked at Christine, a dark sense of hatred flooded his malicious eyes.

Christine watched as he left them, his nimble fingers curling into tiny fists. She dared to look away from the angered child. "Who was he?"

Anja scowled. "Just a boy from another village. Pay him no heed."

It was apparent that Anja did not wish to speak about the boy, which only increased her curiosity. "Anja, who was he?"

"His name is Grigory. He lives in an isolated village, near Siberia," she sighed. "However, at the moment, he is staying with a distant relative."

"You dislike him. Why?"

Anja stared at the ground, her face expressionless. "He is very disrespectful," she spat. "And deeming him cruel would only grace the surface of that offensive wretch." She paused, her heated eyes glared at the dusty road. "He called my brother a monster once. Dimitri tried to avoid Grigori's taunts but when he…" She looked at Christine, the torment in her eyes was all too clear. "He _knows_ to stay away from my brother."

"I understand." Christine looked away. "Children can be cruel. I remember… I _know_ how they can torment and hurt those they find insignificant." Noticing the confusion in Anja's expression, she continued. "My father and I traveled before settling in France. I believe I told you as much, but I did not tell you of the children who would tease the daughter of a penniless musician."

Anja stared, dumbfounded. "I did not realize. I'm sorry, Christine."

Christine shrugged off the apology. "To be honest, their hurtful remarks prepared me for life on stage. I could handle criticism from my peers without crying about it." She grinned, despite herself. "Your brother should not concern himself about what others think."

"But he does." Anja bit her bottom lip in frustration. "He is very defensive about his…"

Before Christine could question Anja's words she heard angered shouts, and then the cries of a familiar voice. Anja gasped as she watched in abject horror; Grigori was torturing her brother, his malicious vengeance wrought in the worst way.

"Look at the monster," he cried in Russian. "Look at him!"

The crowd surrounding them cried in shock; some in pity, others in disgust. Dimitri's hat was on the ground, his long, unkempt hair away from his face, exposing his afflicted features. Christine stared at him; the look of hopeless despair tainted his uneven flesh.

An uneven scar bisected his left eyebrow; the horrid mark wickedly traveled down the side of his cheek, ending at the curve of his jaw. Burn scars tainted the other side of his face, covering where a dark brow should be. Good God, no wonder he kept his face concealed, enshrouded by a mass of thick hair.

"Oh, my God," she found herself say. Anja stood rigidly beside of her, muttering a vile oath.

"Damn him. Damn him to Hell!" she cursed as she made her way to her brother's side.

Christine caught Anja's arm. "Anja, listen to me," she spoke earnestly, "you will solve nothing by punishing Grigori. These people must understand that Dimitri is just like them." She cast a glance at the growing crowd. "I believe I have an idea that may stop further harm to your brother." Anja's tense arm relaxed. "If you will allow me to…"

Anja shook her head in silent defeat. "I believe you, Christine." She nodded in reluctant agreement. "Help him, please."

"Don't worry." She released Anja's arm. "I know what I'm doing."

The festival lost its splendour the moment Dimitri's affliction was unveiled. He had tried so hard to hide his face from the probing eyes of the village. At times, he would cry about his misfortune when he was alone. And in that arena, he was—no one could understand his torment. Anja silently cried in dismay. There was nothing she or her mother could do to soothe his pain. And thus, he suffered alone in silence.

Anja cursed her helplessness. Her mother would be most upset if she knew about Grigori's malevolence, and what followed… She could only pray Christine's idea would not cause further harm. She watched as the opéra singer made her way to the crowd, graceful and noble, her steps sure—her composure that of an empress.

Christine eyed the crowd with contempt, instantly turning her back on their awe-stricken faces. Let them cry in disgust, she thought. Carefully, she retrieved the worn cap from the dusty ground. Wiping it off with a gentle hand she handed it to Dimitri, making eye contact with him.

A smile of sincere adoration reached her lips as she placed a confident hand to his scarred cheek, wiping his remaining tears away. Her other hand brushed away the long strands of chestnut hair, tucking it behind a tiny ear.

Dimitri blanched at her bold ministrations. No one had ever touched him in such a loving way, save for his mother and Anja. And in that moment he fell in love with Christine Daaé.

He almost spoke when she fell to her knees before him. And wonder of all wonders she dared the crowd's anger when she kissed his marred cheek. "Let no one tell you that you are a monster," she whispered vehemently, the deep conviction in her voice made him believe her. "You are far better than half of these people here. True beauty is within the soul, Dimitri." Her eyes held truth within their placid depths, as if she learned it from experience. "Never forget that."

She clasped his hand in hers, turning to the others. Hearing the tentative troubadours' music in the background, she whisked Dimitri into her arms, spinning him like a mad dervish. Christine felt, then heard his laughter. She disregarded the rest. No one would stop her from proving that Dimitri was just as sensitive, just as fragile as any other person.

The music ended on a bittersweet note, and Christine reluctantly released him. "_Monsieur_," she breathed heavily. "That was truly the best dance a gentleman has _ever_ given me. _Merci_."

Dimitri stared at her, his eyes growing with reverence for the lady in front of him. "You are an angel, Christine." He caught a delicate hand. "I will never forget your kindness to me."

She agreed in silent acquiesce as she glanced at the Aurelia's dark home. Her hour was over. And now she would leave her merriment and exchange it for discord. "I must return, Dimitri." She ruffled his dark hair. "Enjoy the fireworks."

"But I thought you wanted to see them!" he whined, visible hurt lingered within his eyes.

She gave him a rueful grin. "I've seen many in Paris. I promised Erik…" She stopped herself. "I'm just a little tired," she amended.

"All right," he replied, but the look in his eyes did not fully accept her excuse. "Sleep well, Christine."

"I will see you in the morning," she promised. A mischievous smile touched her lips when she whispered in his ear, "And watch over your sister. It appears that she has a suitor."

The last thing she saw was Dimitri's surprised expression as she turned away from the festival and its attractions. Her silent walk to Aurelia's vacant home would be difficult—and she inwardly dreaded what would be waiting for her. She was afraid to see him, dreaded to even be in the same room with him.

After last night she set aside her wish to help him. Of course, she was cowering away from her task. It would be difficult—impossible if she conceded defeat. Giving in to Erik would destroy him, which she sincerely refused to do.

Her determination was met by a dark figure sitting idly by the bedroom window. She quietly shut the door, finally finding the will to speak. "Erik?" her faint voice carried over the cold stillness.

"You've returned," he muttered, his voice lacked joy.

Christine watched him sway in the rocking chair, his towering form dwarfing it. "I promised I would be back when my hour was over."

"So you did," he said noncommittally.

Erik's clipped words should have upset her, but they did not. His feigned indifference did not hold sway over her, and she did not mistake the solemnity within his deep voice. It was sorrowful, poignant. As if something truly distressed him. She wanted to reach out; touch him, and chase his demons away. But the bitter memory of his voice kept her silent.

Moving over to him, she timidly placed a hand on his shoulder. A frown pinched her dark brows. "Erik, are you all right?"

A gloved hand touched hers, the gesture pierced her heart. Erik did not speak, only held her hand in silence. "We argue; you and me." He squeezed her captive hand and sighed. "You need to rest. We will be leaving in the morning," his voice was a soft whisper.

Christine cast her eyes to the floor in visible disappointment. "I understand," she murmured gravely.

Erik's eyes held hers for the first time, the golden spheres showing a hint of regard. He pulled her hand to the side of his porcelain cheek; the false mouth enveloped her warm fingers in a frigid kiss. "I will return shortly." He released her hand, and pulled away from the wooden chair.

She watched him close the door behind him, the soft click echoing a grave note within the dense room. Her hand still tingled from the cold touch of his mask. For the first time since he abducted her, she felt that his confidence in his actions weighed heavily with guilt. Perhaps he actually had a conscience. Of course, he did show concern—whether he admitted it or not—when she was at Death's door. Erik was an anomaly. A true enigma.

It was a shame he was as complicated as his labyrinthine lair below the Opéra's stage…

On the other side of the door Erik stood, affronted by his lack of composure. He felt his indifferent air fade, leaving him vulnerable, easy to assess. It was a weakness he wished to disclose. Christine's false concern only ignited the cold fury—and despair—within his conflicted soul.

His conflicted soul. He almost laughed at the clichéd thought. He had no soul—he was born without one. Who could have one with a face that tainted it? A beautiful soul deserved a beautiful exterior. Even if he had one, he lost it when he took his first, fated breath, which would inevitably condemn him for the rest of his life.

He shifted the mask to massage his aching temples. God, he desired to remove it. He could not breathe for its confining hold. This road of vengeance, however, did require a few sacrifices on his part. Having the boy and Christine suffer would dismiss any discomfort.

Erik glanced at the door; a frown touched his malformed lips. Christine was on the other side, waiting patiently for his return. He would, of course, not displease her by leaving her alone. An argument from her would be most welcoming. It would at least drive away his disconcertion.

Christine, he realized, was an outlet for his anger. No matter how he tried to hurt her she always returned to him, staying by his side. A sharp pain entered his mind; the dire memory he set aside returned to plague him. He clenched a hand in annoyance, trying to sustain his remaining restraint.

But for all of his bravado, he could not dispel the hurt she inflicted. Oh, yes, he had a right to despise her, especially after tonight. But instead of reveling in cold contempt he felt empty, dissatisfied by it.

She would never know, never realize that he, too, attended the festival—if only from a distance. Keeping a silent vigil over her, he watched her in the arms of another man, albeit he was younger and the feelings between them were esteemed only in friendship. But his offense from Christine did not come until she braved the silent crowd and openly accepted the boy's ruined face.

He knew the child had something to hide, knowing personally how a makeshift cover could attract attention. He never questioned the boy's reason, finding it no concern of his. But when Christine fell to her knees and kissed the weeping boy, it became his concern. He hated to admit it but he despised the child for gaining Christine's docile affections.

The ruffling of Christine's dress could be heard through the door. She was preparing to undress, no doubt. He glared at the floor in anger, his gloved hands raked through his dark hair, disheveling it. If anyone were to come upon his state of affliction he would not hesitate to strangle the unfortunate victim.

Glaring at the door, he muttered, "You accepted the boy, Christine, but you could not accept _me_." Unprecedented anger consumed him. "What was so different about my face and his?" Her angelic face taunted his beleaguered mind. "Damn you, child. You would not even try to look past it," he muttered to the imaginary Christine within his mind. "But I will always be a monster to you, my dear," he faintly mused. "I promise that I will not disappoint you."

Erik waited until he knew she was asleep, opening the door quietly. He hovered over her, watching her peaceful slumber. Idly pulling away an errant lock from her face, he gently tucked the wayward tendril behind her ear. She did not shudder from his touch. Ironic. But of course she was ignorant of his ministrations.

He reluctantly pulled his hand away. Whatever moment of weakness he had was now gone, leaving the cold, calculating mind behind. No matter how she plagued him with false affection she would not overthrow his hand. Both she and her besotted fiancé had suffered quite immensely thus far.

He smirked at his villainy. The question was, which one suffered more?

...

The sound of rain lightly pattering against the windowpane drew her from her distilled slumber. Covering a yawn with a small hand, she reluctantly pulled the warm sheets away, forcing herself to leave the warm confines of the soft sheets. Her shoulder popped as she stretched her sore muscles. Francesca would faint at her disheveled state. She smiled at the thought, wondering what the old maid was up to.

Christine glanced at her haggard reflection in the mirror and grimaced. A mass of tangled curls greeted her, as did a pair of dark circles under her tired eyes. She rubbed them, trying to focus upon her unpleasant appearance.

Then something caught her attention. A small sheet of yellowed paper lay before her, its scribbled message did not leave her in question as to who the letter was from. Judging by the scrawled letters, she easily read Erik's words:

_Collect your belongings; we leave at __noon_.

She frowned at the note. His words were cold, austere—the meaning impersonal. But what else could she expect? Apparently, his moment of despondency had passed, allowing the monster to resurface.

Folding the tattered note Christine placed it on the edge of the vanity. Considering the few belongings she had, her need to pack would not take long. She quickly removed the borrowed nightgown and carefully slipped into the green evening dress.

She adjusted the shawl Aurelia had given her over her arms and turned to the mirror. Picking up the note she placed it in a small leather bag, which she had confiscated from a rubbish bin. She grinned at the worn pouch, recalling her petty thievery. Well, it was discarded. Perhaps she would not be considered a thief—merely the saviour unwanted items.

Gathering the shawl against her arms she collected her bag, and closed the door behind her. Her eyes widened when she noticed Aurelia sitting by the fire, a faint frown on her pale lips. "Christine?" She looked up. "Come, sit by the fire."

Sensing the younger woman's hesitance, she asked, "How was your evening? Did you enjoy the festival?"

"Yes," she replied in a weak voice. "It was nice."

"Only nice?" she questioned, then stoked the fire with a poker. "I heard about what you did for my son." Her blinded gaze regarded Christine. "You cannot imagine how grateful I am for your kindness towards him."

"He is a wonderful young man," she answered honestly. "I cannot understand why people do not see that in him."

Aurelia's attention returned to the crackling fire. "He has been through so much in his short life," she sighed, showing weariness in her voice. "He was born with blue eyes. I can remember seeing him for the first time, and unlike Anja, he stopped crying the moment he was in my arms." She laughed at the memory, her face lightened a fraction.

"It must be wonderful to have children," Christine commented. "I would like to have a few someday."

"You would be a great mother."

Christine smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. "All I need is a husband," she quipped.

Aurelia's light smile faded, leaving a cold grimace in its place. "Husband." The word caught in her throat. "Christine, you must be careful when you choose a man to become your husband. You never know when he could betray you and hurt what is most precious to you."

Christine said nothing to Aurelia's grave advice, couldn't when the warning troubled her. She felt the older woman place a hand on her knee. "My husband…" She shook her golden head in dismay. "Was considered handsome, strong, and came from a respected family. He was the perfect image of a charming prince, who would slay dragons and rescue princesses.

"Like many, I fell under his spell. He was _charming_ after all," she muttered with bitter resentment. "I could not see anything past his beautiful façade, only that he would be the perfect husband. And like a fool I believed his lies and married him.

"I thought I was most fortunate girl in the world, and for a time my life was pleasant. Anja filled my life with joy. But when Dimitri came…" Her grip on the metal handle tightened. "My husband desired perfection, mind you. When he discovered that his son was not all that he had hoped, he blamed me for Dimitri's failure." She chewed her lower lip. "Dimitri was born with a weak heart and a limp. My husband did not believe that he could sire such a _cripple_; he accused me of infidelity.

"Our relationship became strained, and we would argue. He would retreat to the local tavern and drink himself into a drunken stupor. I tried to keep the children away from most of it, and I succeeded. Until one day…" Her hands slightly trembled as her voice quavered. "Dimitri was three at the time when my husband saw him. He was drunk and irrational—his angered fueled by seeing his _son_.

"Everything happened so quickly. One moment Dimitri was laughing, the next, he was crying in pain." Her expression became sober. "My husband pushed him into the fire. That is why half of his face is burned. But the horror does not end there," she muttered, "Dimitri's scar was made by my husband's dagger. He was on the verge of killing my son when I tried to stop him.

"Alas, I was too late to remove the damage already wrought. He then turned on me and began to beat me. Most of the damage was done to my face. He hands…pressed against my eyes, causing them to rupture. I don't recall what happened afterward, except that my husband had somehow—in his drunken rage—landed on his knife, killing himself."

Christine's mouth opened; the words dry in her throat. "Oh, God," she cried. "I never realized…"

"You wouldn't, would you?" Aurelia smiled, despite her misfortune. "I don't regret anything, except for allowing my husband to harm my children. I wish I had the strength to have stood against him, but I was weak—a coward. At least my family is safe now, and I don't mind the gossip about my husband's death. To me, it does not matter. I am content with my life."

"But why would people gossip? He was a monster."

"You forget that one man is more important than ten women. The town shunned me and my family disowned me, leaving me penniless. Varsa—my old governess—was kind enough to help me by acquiring this cottage. She helped me rebuild my life, and for that, I will forever be indebted to her."

"She is a kind lady," Christine agreed hesitantly, "I will heed your advice, I promise."

"Thank you, my dear. I knew from the moment you stepped through my door my family would be accepted by you."

A pang of guilt hit her. "I am not a kind person, Aurelia." Her treatment of Erik in the past was living proof of her testimony.

"Nonsense. You are too modest by half, Christine. I see why your guardian is so protective of you." She faintly smiled. "He must care for you, Christine. I have never met a man who is so concerned for the life of another."

Christine wished she could disagree, but she refused to shatter Aurelia's image of her captor. Instead, she nodded, agreeing to the lie.

Aurelia smoothed her wrinkled apron. "He told me that you were leaving today. I must confess that I will miss both of you. Whether you believe it or not, you have made my family happy, and for that I must express my eternal gratitude." She patted Christine's hand. "You will _always_ be welcome in my home."

Before Christine could reply, she noticed several lights drifting through the thick sheets of rain. The dark sky cast a gloom on everything, making it difficult to distinguish anything. She heard the thundering sound of hooves beat against the muddy road. Someone was coming. Her brows furrowed together. "Do you have guests coming?" she asked.

Aurelia shook her head. "No. Who is out there? Can you see?"

Christine peered through the foggy glass. "I cannot tell, but there is a carriage and several men on horses." She turned to Aurelia. "They've stopped."

"Dear God," Aurelia's voice shuddered. "Stay here; I will see what this is about."

Aurelia's departure drifted from a few minutes to an hour. By her side was the unmistakable figure of Erik. What was he doing there? Christine pulled the shawl against her. With Erik, she needed no explanation.

She waited a moment before leaving the safety of the parlour, making her presence known to Aurelia's mysterious visitors. She instantly felt Aurelia's hand on her shoulder; the subtle action pleaded for her to return inside. She shrugged off the older woman's hand, listening to a muffled conversation between Erik and large man on horseback.

The bearded man nodded to something Erik said then looked at her. He asked another question, but it was unfortunately lost to her through the blinding rain and endless thunder.

She watched Erik nod stiffly, his attention turned to Aurelia as he whispered something to her. The silent communication between them confused her. Before she realized it, Aurelia escorted her into the house. The unnerved mother barely closed the door when she said, "Come with me."

Christine followed her without objection.

Holding Christine's hand Aurelia led her confused guest to her bedchamber. Closing the door, she quietly made her way to a chest at the foot of a massive bed. She said nothing to Christine as she searched through a pile of folded quilts.

Finding what she desired, she quickly turned to her. "You will need this," she muttered grimly, thrusting a folded object into Christine's cold hands.

Christine refused to remove the cloth. In truth, she was afraid of what she would find. Instead, she asked, "What's happening out there? What is Erik saying to them?"

Aurelia paced the room before answering. "We are in the presence of his imperial highness, the Tsar Alexander III," she muttered with spite, her face became solemn. "Whatever happens, you must do as Erik says."

She did not question Aurelia's informal use of Erik's name, merely accepted it for what it was. She moved a tentative hand to her chest, trying to steady the irregular beating of her heart. "What is happening?" she asked, secretly dreading to know the answer.

Aurelia held her tiny hands together in silent deliberation. "Christine, you must trust him in this." Moving to a battered desk, her hands idly traced the scarred surface. She sensed Christine's growing confusion, silently pitying the girl's misfortune. "You must have faith in what he is about to do," she said with uncertain conviction.

"But how can I?" she asked, her eyes filled with visible turmoil. "He certainly does not hold the same faith in me," she muttered weakly.

Aurelia shook her head. "You must set aside the past, my dear. What's done is done, and there is nothing you can do about it." Her back stiffened as she retrieved the folded cloth, her fingers caressed the soft surface. "I have not trusted a man since my husband blinded me and marred my son." She gave Christine a meaningful glance. "Don't make the same mistake I did by believing in a pretty face—it nearly cost me everything."

"But you don't know him like I do!" Christine argued. "You would hate him if you knew about everything he's done!"

"None of us are perfect, Christine," Aurelia chided her. "We must look beyond our flaws and see the truth from within. Your guardian has quite a past, I'm sure." Her concealed eyes focused upon Christine. "But he _is_ a good man, and I know that he would see no harm come to you. Trust in him, Christine. _You_ must trust in him," she pleaded and handed her the cloth. "Use that to defend yourself if the situation becomes necessary."

With timid hands Christine opened the cloth; a delicate blade gleamed menacingly in the dim candlelight. "I cannot take this."

"You must," Aurelia insisted. "If I can give you anything it will be a chance to fight against those who wish you ill." She clasped Christine's hands in hers. "But no matter what happens, always know that you have people who care for you and will pray for your safety." She hesitated for a moment. "There is nothing more I can tell you."

Christine felt Aurelia's hands leave hers then felt a soft kiss upon her forehead. "Farewell, Christine Daaé. I pray we meet again."

Aurelia gave her a bittersweet smile, and turned away, leaving the room.

She felt a cold sense of despair as the light from the candle flickered and went out. Her heart stopped. It was a forewarning. Like an omen to an impending crisis, it held the grave nuance of bereavement—an inescapable prelude to death. Her hands held the knife tightly. Without thinking, she concealed the blade in the leather purse, praying that she would not need it.

Her silent entreaty to God was interrupted by a devil. Erik entered the room; the visible part of his face was contorted in unparalleled fury. "Come." He reached for her hand. "We must go."

Christine stopped, refusing to comply with his demands. "I refuse to move until you tell me what they said."

He muttered a foreign oath, condemning her trite audacity. "They wished to meet the survivors—the only survivors—of the Kattowitz train wreck." His bland tone unnerved her. "The tsar, along with an entourage of distinguished royalty and state officials, has come here for that reason."

Christine took a step away from his daunting form. "But what does that have to do with us? Why do _they_ care about people they know nothing about?"

Erik humoured her naïve question. "It appears that our… strange fortune of surviving the accident appealed to the royal court. We have been invited to stay as guests of the tsar and his family."

"_Mon Dieu_!" Christine gasped. "No! Erik, please," she pleaded, "I cannot be a guest of someone so important." Her nervous eyes darted to his for some sense of reassurance.

She received his disdain.

"You can," he said with remote certainty. Moving to where she stood, he pulled her into a resolute embrace. "You must do this," his compelling eyes persuaded her.

Christine felt the last of her strength leave her. She was powerless, helpless against forces which she could not control. She submitted to him, crying into his damp cloak. "What else did you tell them?" she asked, rubbing the traitorous tears away.

Erik brushed a few wayward curls away from her delicate face. "My dear," he murmured softly into her ear, "I told them that you are…my wife."

...

****

**Author's Note: And thus our heroine faints in the arms of her enemy…or does she?**

**All joking aside, I must confess that this chapter has been very difficult for me to write. I wanted to convey a sense of solemnity where the reader could actually feel some of the characters' pain. I fear that I have failed in my attempt, hence the three-month hiatus… The truth is I wanted to have a subtle…connection between Erik and Dimitri's fate, and how Christine's reaction to both determines how they… **

**God, this is difficult to explain, so please bear with me. I suppose the easiest way to say it is how her acceptance for Dimitri's misfortune conflicts with her past rejection of Erik. I wanted him to see this act of selfless compassion, and question her sudden lack of…revulsion. **

**I hated writing everything that led up to this part. It seemed so happy and tedious… I promise in future chapters that I will try to stay away from too many 'appreciative looks' and 'thank yous.' God, I loathe too much admiration between characters—I prefer conflict. It's easier to write, trust me.**

**I also added a cameo appearance in this chapter. For those of you who are students of Russian history, you may have noticed the appearance of an important Russian figure that graced the world's stage in the early twentieth century. Although this infamous person changed his name, and was later deemed the 'mad monk' of ****Russia****, or was also known as Grigori Rasputin. I'm sure the 'hypnotic eyes' gave it away. Nevertheless, I wanted Christine to express her disdain for a man who would later become a notorious sex symbol, although I cannot see why women found him so… Never mind.**

**Also, as I have recently mentioned in past chapters, I fear I can no longer reply to each review. I really want to, but the site mentioned something about chatting and holding conversations within a post, and I'm not sure if that pertains to answering questions or responding to reviews as well… I don't want to take the chance of having the story removed… So, I will try to answer everything within my notes… It's the best I can do until I am reassured about that message.**

**Let's see, was there anything else…. Ah, yes, I believe many of you can guess where this story will go, so I will not say anything else that may spoil something important. I just hope I can post the next chapter within a month… **

**Thanks again for all of your reviews! I truly appreciate each one I receive! =)**


	6. Chapter Five: Marriage: Heaven and Hell

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Five.

_The Gatchina Palace, Russia_

_"My dear, I told them that you are…my wife."_

The appalling sentence played within her tortured mind like a crazed mantra, which refused to end. She felt her muscles collapse and the last of her strength leave her. Her eyelids became weighted, forcing them closed as her shallow breath flitted against her captor's resolute chest.

She was going to faint.

Erik knew that Christine's grief-stricken expression would be the prelude to her dramatic act of fainting. He felt her warm body become limp in his arms as she swooned listlessly against him. _Damn_.He despised women when they found it necessary to collapse in such a feminine fashion.

His amber eyes darkened with rage. "You will not faint on me, Christine!" he threatened, shaking her lifeless body violently. "You must stay conscious: you have no other choice."

Whether it was the dark note within his grave voice or his aggressive touch, his pawn moved weakly against his rigid embrace. Her eyes gazed into his, albeit faintly, as she began to maintain her balance.

An air of disorientation tainted her angelic face, her turbulent eyes fixed upon his impassioned visage. She hesitated before finding the courage to speak. "Erik," she pleaded solemnly, "I… You ask too much of me. I cannot go through with this."

His tense arms revealed his sudden loss of patience. "You _will_ do as I say, Christine."

She knew that the malevolence within his voice spoke truth. Although she desired to willingly submit to his harsh demands she found that she could not. Balancing herself, she gently moved away from him, placing a proper distance between them.

Her paltry separation from his arms was enough to strengthen her resolve against him. Staring at Erik with indifference, she finally spoke. "Why did you tell them that I was your _wife_?"  She used the term '_wife'_ profanely. "You could have said that I was a distant relative, a young ward—anything." Her eyes widened in confused indignation. "Why did you lie to them?"

Erik did not misunderstand the silent note of desperation within her soft timbre. She was mortified by his course of action when she should very well be grateful. Of course, she did not realize the danger of being a beautiful unmarried lady in a world where men would take advantage of such a sweet, succulent prize.

Christine's childish scrutiny was beginning to wear away any sympathy he had for her. Let the woman drown in her own stupidity, he thought. What did he owe her for just saving her name, possibly even her life?

His guarded stare only increased her distress. Good. Perhaps his impromptu actions would work to his benefit. "Do you really wish to know, my _ingenious_ child?" he began, a hint of sarcasm tainted his pleasant inquiry. "I did it to save you, or rather your name." Noticing the growing confusion in her eyes, he added, "Unless you prefer I leave you to a Russian noble's _good_ intent?"

"Good intent?" The hollow words echoed from her weak voice. "Erik…"

"My dear, you are not fresh out of the schoolroom, I assure you." His eyes gleamed with profound bitterness. "But what am I saying? No. I do not wish to discuss _that_ trite matter. However, the issue at hand must be settled."

A serrated breath escaped her. The cold, calculative manner that Erik procured should have comforted her but it did not. She again felt like a pawn on a chessboard, and Erik her manipulator. Was this planned? No. She did not believe he had orchestrated this unexpected invitation. He was powerful, yes, but surely not powerful enough to have a tsar do his bidding? God help her if he did…

Whatever his plans, she had no choice but to concede to his wishes. Christine closed her tired eyes. "What issue, Erik?" she asked weakly.

"You must agree to everything I say or do during this interval—there will be no exceptions, Christine." As if proving his point he retrieved her shawl, holding it captive in his gloved hands. "I cannot have you contradicting what I say." His feral gaze penetrated the thick layer of ice on her skin. "Our situation is precarious. Know that if the tsar or the others discover that we are anything but husband and wife, the price will be the forfeit of our lives…"

Erik's grave words struck a harsh cord within her heart. Death? Would it come down to an execution because of a small lie? She wished to believe his words were merely fabrications of the actual truth. However, deep down, she knew Erik would not lie to her about this—or would he? He had lied to her before, what would stop him from doing so now? He was no longer her elusive Angel of Music.

"It appears that you have already settled it, Erik," she stated blandly. "Why do you wish to discuss something when you do not need my approval? Apparently, I have no means to stop you from doing what you desire."

"You are right in that regard. Nevertheless, you must do all that I say. Do not speak unless prompted to. Do you understand? If you value your life you will do everything your _husband_ demands. Do I make myself clear, _wife_?"

His repetition was insidious, which inexorably, began to wear upon her nerves. Christine's languid stance straightened, tensed with unspoken irritation. "Very well. We will pretend to be husband and wife, but only until you can think of a way to escape."

She made it sound as if it were a prison sentence. Erik veiled his brief amusement by deriding her. "Your acquiescence intrigues me, _mon ange_. Truly." He extended his hand for hers. Taking it, he said, "I do appreciate your desire to at least pretend to be civil towards your doting husband. I will congratulate you if we succeed in this farce."

Her hand tightened in his. "This is a sick game you play," she muttered under her breath. Her dejected expression turned mutinous. "Do not believe for one moment that I am doing this out of pleasure, Erik."

"And I am?" he shot back, noticing her wariness of him. It was as if she believed…

Then the realization hit him. Did she honestly believe he instigated all of this? Oh, Fortune—and Fate—truly smiled upon him this day. It could not have turned out better if he had planned this. His little pawn had successfully enclosed her precious little life in a poisonous web laced by her own ignorance. Something akin to delight flooded his dark soul. Christine's lack of knowledge would come in useful to her torture…

Delighting in his newfound entertainment, he feigned ignorance. "Why, my dear, did you not believe that I had all of this planned?" he teased her. "Oh, come now. Surely you would believe more in my capabilities."

Christine was taken aback by his sudden admission. Could he have actually arranged this? No. He was playing with her mind. However, they _were_ in this unwanted position and it was Erik's duty to get them out of it.

"I would put nothing past you," she admitted bitterly. "However, I will not be treated like a foolish child, Erik."

Erik pulled her closer to him. Glaring down from the mask's eye slits, his feral gaze reproached her with silent censure. "But you will be treated as one, nonetheless." His cold statement cut her. "You were foolish enough to believe in an _angel_. Why not be foolish enough to believe that I would treat you otherwise?"

Christine tried to pull away but his hands refused to release her. "Don't turn away from me," he scolded her. Seeing the growing fear in her pale expression, he muttered, "You will show me the proper respect for a husband from this moment forward. I will not have you disgrace me, Christine." His heated gaze turned to the closed door. Pulling her forward, he collected her discarded bag and handed it to her. "It is time to leave."

She said nothing as he led her down the dark hall, his skeletal hand holding hers captive. His savage manner did not improve when he stood in front of the door, blocking it with his imposing frame. His masked expression displayed a visible warning. "Remember what I said. Say nothing that contradicts my explanations. Lie in the comfort of knowing that you are preserving your life. You have no further use of morals; leave those for your uncaring god."

Holding back her seditious tongue she set aside her reprimand for his careless blasphemy. Of course, for all she knew, Erik's faith did not consist of a god, or even morality for that matter. But could she judge him by the great disservice done to him? She was not sure.

"Erik—"

"One more thing," he interrupted her with curt eloquence. "If you do so much as reveal _anything_, I will kill you myself." He had the audacity to smile under the cracked façade. "Now use your charming acting skills and play the part of a besotted wife." Pushing her before him, he whispered with malicious glee, "Your audience is waiting."

The cold morning's wind was the first thing to greet her. As if seeing the royal entourage for the first time, Christine restrained herself from crying. She cursed Erik for his cruelty. Why could he not just be honest? Was this another one of her unending tortures? She somewhat wished the Devil would take his soul to Hell…if only for a moment.

Christine's spite faded when she noticed the solemn expressions on three familiar faces. And sadly, by a wretched twist of fate, they were going to watch her depart to some unknown destination; and all she could do was gape helplessly at them without saying so much as a proper farewell. She felt sick inside because of her weakness.

"Christine!" The soft cry of her name tore at her heartstrings. Dimitri. She could no longer endure the thoughts of leaving this place—especially when she heard and saw the sadness emanating from her new companions. Dear God, why did parting have to be so difficult?

"Christine," Dimitri cried again. This time he made the brave effort of stumbling to her side.

Clasping onto the length of her dress, his clenched hands pleaded for her to stop. She automatically caught a warm tear as it traveled down the side of his uneven cheek. Her own tears threatened to fall when she noticed that he no longer hid his face behind a curtain of hair. His piteous visage was displayed for all to see. And yet, she could not feel pity…

No longer could she retain her air of grace. And falling to the ground like a devout follower on bended knee she embraced the trembling boy, embraced him with the patience and love of a blessed saint. She removed his traitorous tears with an angel's holy kiss. Staring into his magnificent blue eyes, she marveled at the beauty of this boy. Not just the external portion, but also the beauty within his soul.

Was this how Erik felt when he was a child? her mind idly wondered. Did he ever feel this helpless? Did he ever suffer such desperation? Or have a need for another's acceptance? He must have. She remembered that he had once spoke of his poor, unhappy mother; and how she would cry every time she saw his face, making his first present a mask of rough, unfeeling leather.

But this child was exempt of such unfair cruelty. "Dimitri," her voice crooned softly, trying to placate the boy.

More tears escaped his reddened eyes. "Christine, don't leave us. Stay here. Mother will not mind if you live with us. You can keep your room and we'll continue where we left off. We'll be happy, Christine."

His continuance of using her Christian name was enough to tear her remaining strength apart. "Dimitri, you know I must leave." Christine's eyes searched his, trying to find a hint of understanding. Seeing none, she continued, "My stay here was only temporary. Erik and I have to leave now."

"But you belong here!" he cried. "Before you came my family rarely found something to smile about. You made us happy, and now you're leaving…"

The visible hurt within his eyes made her feel terrible. She was causing this child unnecessary pain, and yet she could nothing to prevent it. "I was happy here, too, Dimitri. But I can no longer stay here." She noticed Anja come to her brother's side, silently demanding for him to rise.

Dimitri shook his sister's firm hand off of his shoulder as he still beseeched Christine. "I will be alone again," he muttered faintly.

Her warm eyes faded to a shade despondent sapphire. Fate was certainly merciless this day. Damn her machinations and atrocious sense of humour. Christine wiped another barrage of tears from his face. "You will never be alone, Dimitri." Gathering the strength behind her words, she proceeded to say, "You have your family, and if God wills it, I will come back to see you." Her watery eyes held his, willing him to believe in her words. "I promise you, Dimitri."

A tentative, trembling hand grasped her shoulder. Dimitri's face lightened as his turbulent gaze settled to one of sheer calm. "We will meet again, Christine Daaé. I can see it now," he said with fiery conviction. Casting his gaze to Erik, he acknowledged his foreboding presence with a curt nod, and then looked at Christine once more. "He will protect you; I know it."

"Oh, Dimitri," she murmured thoughtfully. If only he knew…

The fleeting moment between child and angel passed as a third entered their affable union as a gloved hand clasped onto her free shoulder, silently bidding for her to rise. Innocence succumbed to the lulling request of tainted malevolence. The darkness held sway over the light, dimming it until it faded from the muted scene.

"Come, Christine," the dark voice beckoned to her. "We must leave."

Nodding with reluctance, she pulled away from the dewy ground, her skirts saturated with it.  "Yes, Erik, it is time," she whispered with faint awareness, although her mind was elsewhere.

Anja pulled her sobbing brother away from the ground as she watched Christine part with the last of her will. For a moment she believed she saw a look of defeat within her friend's eyes. It disheartened her to see the gracious _Mademoiselle_ Daaé concede and relinquish her strength to the monster holding her.

She knew it was wrong to deem her friend's guardian with such an adverse title, but he caused Christine pain by forcing her into this little intrigue. She would not put it past him if he had _wanted_ this to happen. Who would not sell his or her soul for a moment to be in the presence of royalty or the illustrious Russian court? Erik had carelessly thrust Christine into this nightmare, much like casting a prisoner of war into a den of lions.

For that, she could not find it within her heart to forgive him. Nevertheless, he appeared to care for Christine. And in some crazed sense she had to trust in that. Wiping a stray tear from her eye, Anja looked at the fragile figure of the woman before her.

She felt Christine's gaze upon her, the cool, wintry depths of her eyes conveying a sense of matchless sorrow. Finding a small reserve of strength, Anja mouthed a heartfelt farewell as she watched Christine accept it with tangible regret. Her friend mimicked the gesture; then turned to Erik, allowing him to lead her down the walkway.

Her beloved mother's comforting arms embraced her in a sympathetic gesture of understanding. Dimitri was right—he had to be. For she also had a feeling that this would not be the last time she would see the faces of Christine Daaé and her mysterious guardian, Erik.

Her watery eyes watched them ascend into an empty carriage, disappearing behind its magnificent ebony doors. The scene seemed almost ethereal, like something out of a faerie story. And yet in this tragic tale the monstrous villain carried off the beautiful princess to a kingdom, where light was vacant and shadows consumed the very existence of an unfortunate soul. The ending, she realized, would not conclude happily.

The royal entourage began to depart, each face a mask of indifference. It seemed as if the tsar's loyal compatriots could care less about this strange turn of events. Of course, the royal court rarely remained entertained very long with anything—let alone two survivors from a train accident. Perhaps they would release their aversive prisoners and move on to another fleeting interest.

Anja could only pray for such an end.

The line of royalty and officials descended into the morning's premature light, fading away into the dawn's thick mist. The unwilling tears fell then, forcing her to realize the reality of the situation. Christine would be in equal danger there as she had been when she barely escaped Death's welcoming embrace.

A cold sense of fear chilled her spine. And sadly, she realized something terrible would happen. Then again, her faith in Christine's guardian would have to enough. He would certainly protect her from the unwanted attentions she would inevitably receive. But Anja accepted, albeit unwillingly, that he actually cared for his protégé. Not just cared for her, but actually loved her. If only Christine would realize that…

She knew that her friend was bound to discover it sooner or later. Inevitability was a cruel device Fate used.

And with that parting thought, she murmured a fond farewell to her beloved friend. "I can only pray for your safety—and happiness. A_u revior_, Christine." A fragile smile touched her pale lips. "Until our next meeting…"

…  

Christine felt the bitter taste of dread in her mouth as the carriage began to move. Her gaze turned to see that the small figures of Aurelia, Anja, and Dimitri as they became quickly consumed by the growing miasma. She had the distinct feeling that this would be the last time she saw them.

A warm, solitary tear fell from a sapphire eye. She did nothing to stop its callous descent. Instead, she remained poised, distracted by the brooding man before her. Christine could feel the subtle provocation radiating from his tense posture. It almost seethed within his entire being.

She noticed a gloved hand clutch the edge of the seat as the carriage hit a rock. Other than the small movement Erik remained a statue of stone, unmoving and purposefully ignoring the woman across from him. Christine's eyes dared to make contact with the rest of his ominous figure.

The remnants of his dark hair were carelessly pulled away from his masked visage; his illustrious façade remained cold, expressionless—obscuring his ill-fated beauty. It was the same face, which taunted her, tormented her with nightmares—a death's head with mottled flesh, fusing with muscle and bone. His twisted lips and missing nose only added to the horror of his face, but his eyes…

Dear God, how they gleamed with unprecedented malice. Even now, she could feel them upon her, scorching her flesh with their hideous scrutiny. She admitted that there was a subtle beauty behind the feral orbs, but she still obtained a sense of unease whenever she felt intimidated by them. Erik took pleasure in her undesired vulnerability. 

And then the monster had the audacity to speak. "Is something troubling you?"

Christine sighed, revealing her apprehension. "I'm tired," she muttered the pitiful excuse.

Erik crossed his arms and leaned forward. "Do all ladies say that whenever they do not wish to discuss what is troubling them?" His words mocked her weakness. "You do not have to feign exhaustion with me. Actually, I expect you to be more than a weak, foolish lady who only concerns herself with clothing and gossip."

Her dark brows furrowed together in mock irritation. "But I thought you wanted me to appear weak and reserved." She would not give him the satisfaction of deeming herself foolish. "As if I agree to everything you say. Is that not what you want?"

"What I want is a wife who will not disgrace me. I despise women who faint—who are too inquisitive by half." Christine did not miss the accusation in his pointed gaze. "I'm sure that you remember how to play the part of a smitten girl." His face was mere inches from hers. "You will have to accept my arm in public, smile when necessary, and do all the wifely requirements which are needed to convince society."

He paused for a moment, allowing his words to permeate in her confused mind. "If we do not convince every soul, rumours will spread and questions will follow." He did not have to elaborate on the outcome. "I believe you know what will happen."

Christine folded her hands together and closed her eyes. She gave the impression of a maudlin saint awaiting judgment. However, her solemn voice shattered that pious image.  "I will uphold whatever you say, but I need to know a few things." He nodded for her to continue. "I'm sure people will ask about how we met and—"

"We will say that we met at the Opéra and our acquaintance turned to something more, leading us to marry," he interrupted her, the certainty within his calm voice made Christine frown.

"And if they ask about where we were married, and by _whom_? What would be the answer?"

Erik cocked his head to the side as if humouring her. "We were married in a small church by the local priest. How does the name Father Arouet sound to you?" He did not believe that she would appreciate the full extent of his secret jest behind that name. With Christine being a serious believer in the divine, he doubted that she would enjoy that their _'priest'_ was coined from a notorious French writer of the eighteenth century, who, irrevocably changed his name and was despised by many alleged Christians to this day.

Watching her silently agree to the suggestion he reveled in her ignorant acceptance and continued. "As for the church and witnesses, we can say it took place in a small village outside of Bordeaux; and your guardian, along with a host of friends, attended the service."

She looked at him, unimpressed by his duplicity. "You're a wonderful liar, Erik."

He nodded in agreement. "When one must improvise in order to survive, one must do things that contradicts the innate morality man may possess." He smirked under his mask. "But of course, I am _no_ man."

She did not agree to his last comment, instead she said, "And what about our marriage, Erik? What if someone asks how you proposed?" She bit her bottom lip, disgusted by the thought of having this perverse conversation with him. "What should I say to that?"

"You can add a little enthusiasm to the tale, Christine. Tell them I got on my knees like a lovesick fool and begged you to marry me. Unless, of course, you wish the roles were reversed?"

She gave an unladylike snort filled with annoyance. "We shall stay with the former explanation." She eyed him warily, her irritation turning to worry. "Do you honestly believe we can actually convince these people? I have never been to court before—a royal court at that. What if I cannot blend in with these people? I am not of noble blood."

Her pleading eyes, along with her confessed uncertainty, almost touched him. Christine's childlike hesitation seemed real, almost tangible. And for a moment he wished to comfort her with a few soothing words. But he hardened his heart against such foolish notions.

"Being born a noble does not mean that you have the etiquette and mannerisms of one. A peasant can play the part of a prince if given the proper education and skills." His amber eyes bore into hers. "Do not look down as if you are a servant. You are a guest of the tsar; people will respect you out of fear. Remember that. Use it." His autocratic voice demanded, compelling her to obey.

Abrupt realization masked her bland features. There was a note of experience hidden behind his words. Of course, she should not be surprised by his knowledge of things. Knowing that he was born below a noble's status, he somehow mastered the characteristics of one. He could perform the role of an aristocrat with efficiency and never have someone question his demeanour.

But could she do the same?

She highly doubted it. Her part in _Faust_ was simple to perform, since the audience expected each scene, each emotion as they watched, knowing what was to come. In this play, however, she would have to use her poorly honed skills and pray she gave a convincing performance.          

"Christine." The simple utterance of her name from Erik's resonant voice shattered her thoughts. 

She looked up, surprised. But her silence allowed him to continue his sudden desire of resuming their disjointed conversation. "Do not concern yourself with this farce; I will manage everything." His voice was considerably light and somewhat comforting. "All you need to do is stay by my side and pretend I'm your husband." A gloved hand embraced hers. "Nothing will go awry if you do that."

Christine glanced at their joined hands, veiling her indifference of their close proximity. "I have never been a wife before," she murmured quietly.

"No. You were once…" Erik muttered under his steely breath, his wild eyes glared at her with violent ire. However, he did not continue when he removed his hand from hers and looked out the side window, dropping the subject.

Her eyes remained on her folded hands. She did not have to ask where his objection to her careless statement lead. The tragic events at the Opéra and what followed left a cold, unwanted reminder in her memory—and in his. _His wife…_

If she could be considered that… Her hastened acceptance to marry him was the only way to save Raoul and the mysterious Persian from drowning in the torture chamber. What did Erik expect from her? He forced her into that position. Choose: life or death—scorpion or grasshopper. Of course, the first choice was also a death sentence…        

The irresolute silence between them ceased when the carriage stopped its jostling movement. Christine looked away from the safety of her hands and noticed a man, dressed in a guard's royal attire, open the carriage door.

Warm brown eyes glittered with mirth as he glanced at her. In spite of his silent greeting, the warmth faded to cool trepidation as the soldier acknowledged the other passenger. He quickly adjusted his uniform's navy collar, a visible sign proving his timidity. "_Monsieur_, the tsar wishes for you to accompany him the rest of the way." He gave Christine a small, reassuring smile. "_Madam_, you may stay in the carriage, if you wish. The weather is quite unseemly for a lady, however."

"My wife would prefer to stay here," Erik answered for her. His gaze shifted to her. "Wouldn't you, _mon coeur_?"

She could not say anything, only nodded in dismal agreement. Erik graced the edge of her shoulder, providing a small amount of relief as he left her to her thoughts. She inwardly flinched when the carriage door closed and the discomforting motion commenced once more.

Her unexpected separation, although temporary, vexed her. Erik had deserted her to appease a king among men, leaving her to suffer in the silent agony of her doubt and misgivings.

What compelled the tsar to separate them? Did Erik appeal that much to a man above his station? Evidently, he did. But of course, he did obtain the innate charm of poet and the grace of a noble. Who would not be intrigued by such an enigmatic figure? Did she not also fall into his tangled web of deception? God only knew what lies he was telling the tsar right now.

Although his deceptions were saturated with honey and sugar, they were also laced with poison—a poison, which would weaken its victim, and inevitably, give another soul over to Charon to boat across the River Styx.

Souls, she realized, were destined for the underworld. According to the Greeks, all who passed over from the land of the living went to join the dark lord—and his impassive wife—in the dark depths of the abyss, seeking solace in the realm of the dead.

It was a discomforting thought. The idea of complete darkness and utter despair only made her fear death and the cold ground which enveloped the useless corpse of the departed even more. Her father's tales of angels and the loving presence of a benevolent entity whose knowledge and love spanned across the countless oceans of time and memory were comforting and more acceptable than that of ancient—and modern—theories.

The thought of her father made her heart ache, but the pain was despondent, dull beyond recall. She felt hollow inside, her eyes vacant of tears long since shed. Her time for mourning him had expired years ago, the well of tears dry.

She felt wretched, a sense of dejection clouding her inert form. Would the fabled angels she had once loved now be filled with hatred for her callousness? Would God himself frown upon her cold behaviour? She doubted her father was proud of his Little Lotte now. Her idea of sacrificing her happiness for Erik—a notorious murderer, then agreeing to deceive a mass of naïve people only added to her dark list of transgressions. A true Christian would end this madness, revoke all evil, cast away all masks of deception, and return to a life of piety and righteousness.

But a true Christian she was not…

Instead, she willingly embraced the Devil and reveled in the glories of sin. She felt no remorse for what she was about to do, no shame for lying—no regret for staying by Erik's side. He would condemn her, she realized. And yet she was already condemned. She was damned the moment she heard her angel's voice through the mirror…

Christine leaned against the seat; her dark mass of curls eclipsing against the velvet interior. Oh, how his voice tormented her with the sweet, succulent promise of absolution—of rapture and desired completion. She knew the angels secretly envied his flawless voice—which was certainly not of their creation. And since Erik was not a heavenly entity, he was certainly an angel from Hell.

Ah, yes, Lucifer could construct and mold beautiful things to perfection—most of which were cloaked in lies and deceit. But was that not Erik in his truest form? And yet…

For although it would be easier to believe in such reckless iniquity; she knew Erik's true fate lay between both realms—for he had no knowledge of good or evil.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her tired eyes. Out of every being on Earth, it had to be she whose destiny fell with this anomalous madman. How strange and utterly perplexing life could truly be… And in spite of her alleged misfortune, she felt relieved, almost at peace with herself.

And with that closing thought, she gave in to the blissful slumber Hypnos generously provided, knowing that God—and Erik—only knew what lay ahead in her unforeseen future.

… 

"You are not much for one of conversation, _monsieur_."

Erik glanced at the tall, burly man out of the corner of his eye. This man, unlike his father, believed in controlling the Russian people. His abrupt decision to become a full-fledged autocratic leader only made his faithful subjects question his ability to rule. Then again, his devotion to the Official Nationality, founded by his grandfather, and being a conservative reactionary only added to his disdain of people thinking for themselves.

It would be wise not to question his policies or courses of action.    

The tsar waved for his guards to fall back, allowing him and his guest to speak more in private. "_Monsieur_, let us speak plainly," he said in a guttural voice. "I would like to know more about the people I invite to my home as guests, before my wife asks questions to answers which I cannot give." A russet brow rose in question. "Let us start by asking where you are from?"

"France," Erik replied under his breath.

Feigning surprise at his impassive companion, the tsar regarded him with an amiable nod. "I believe that was obvious," he chuckled. "No, I mean where, exactly? You strike me as a Parisian." The tsar examined Erik with visible interest. "And judging by your quiet demeanour; a noble one at that."

It would be easier to lie and agree with the tsar's speculation, but Christine's uncertainty stopped him. "My wife and I do not descend from the noble aristocracy," he said smoothly. "We are, however, well off in funding."

The tsar's interest grew. "Ah, and what is it that you do, _monsieur_? Dabble in trade?" he teased. "Come now, tell me: what is your occupation?"

God, when would this bloody interrogation end? He was not prone to answering questions about his personal life. Hence, lying was beneficial to his cause. But to please a tsar…

"I am architect, your highness."

"Truly?" The tsar's amazement did not cease. "What by Providence…" he muttered to himself, then flashed Erik a knowing grin. "Perfect! It's as if God himself sent you to us!" Noticing his companion's confusion, he added, "I am in need of an architect. My palace is dire need of repair—we are currently renovating it."

The Russian's words interested Erik. When was the last time he had the opportunity to work on a building, surely not after the construction of the Opéra. Perhaps this default in his plans held promise after all.

Erik folded his hands, placing them under his chin. "And which palace would this be, your highness?"

"Why the Gatchina Palace, of course. I have decided to move away from the noise and congestion of St. Petersburg, and my country palace in Gatchina seemed to be the best choice."

Something akin to fear underlined the tsar's mediocre words. After his father's surprising murder, the Heir Apparent became even more skeptical of his advisors and followers. He did not wish to fall victim to a senseless assassination the way his father had.

Every country west of Russia knew of Tsar Alexander II's fate, and also the macabre details about his corpse—or what remained of it… Thus, his son finding sanctuary in the country hastily removed his family from the dangers in the capital. This gave Erik the perfect opportunity to shift between the spheres of peasant and noble, giving him the chance to renew his place in the world…a final dance before the masquerade ended—forever.

With that thought in mind, he asked, "What kind of renovations are we speaking of?" Erik kept his questions to a minimum.

The tsar rubbed his face in obvious frustration. "I wish to enlarge some rooms and make a few repairs. And every architect desires to argue with me!" He muttered a low curse in Russian, and then glared at Erik. "Tell me, is it so difficult to do one's job? I am not asking for them to tear down the damned thing and rebuild it! I just want it repaired." He shook his head. "Good Russian work, it seems, is hard to come these days."

Erik's attention fell to the road before them, his golden eyes squinted against the sun's harsh rays. "I will need to see it," he murmured, crossing his arms. "I do not believe repairing your palace will be an impossible feat; challenging perhaps—but not impossible."

Relief settled over the tsar. "Just what I wanted to hear! Perhaps one of foreign prestige can show my people how to complete a given task. I am interested in your ideas. Perhaps you can share them with me after you have examined my home?"

"Certainly." Erik gave a curt nod.

"Splendid." He rubbed his hands together. "And since we are having an affable conversation, perhaps you can tell me a little more about yourself." When his mysterious guest did not speak, he decided to start probing the prospective architect with his questions. "All right, since I understand that you and your wife have recently been married and are traveling across my beloved homeland, what is it you wish to see?"

Erik did not hesitate with his explanation. "The sites—mainly. My wife desires to see the eastern countries of Europe. How could _I_ deny her such a simple request?" The lie easily rolled off of his tongue.

"Yes, a woman can make you do crazy things," the tsar agreed, his voice thoughtful. "I remember when I first saw my wife… I believed her to be the most beautiful woman God ever made." He grinned at Erik. "I'm sure you felt the same for your wife. It's difficult not to."

Erik stiffened at the tsar's sympathetic words. So his marriage was a love match, then? Very rare, but certainly not unheard of. He suspected the man adored his wife beyond redemption and did not have a mistress on the side like many other husbands. No, this man was against the joys and pleasures infidelity had to offer. He was literally a besotted fool when it came to his wife—pity such adoration came with undesired consequences.

"Have I lost you again? You seem to be occupied in your thoughts, _monsieur_. Tell me, what is your wife's name? My Minnie will be most upset if I did not have enough decency to ask such a simple question."

"Her name is Christine," Erik absently murmured into the drunken stillness.

"Christine," the tsar said, as if committing it to memory. "Lovely name, I'm sure." Drawing his dark eyebrows together, he asked, "That is a French name, is it not? And yet your wife does not strike me as being French. Was she an _migré?_"

Erik almost chortled at the idea of Christine leaving the country because of political intrigue. He masked his amusement. "No. Christine is Scandinavian. She moved to France when she was but a small child," he answered with certainty.

"That is wonderful! My wife will adore her!" Lost in his own private joy, the tsar gave a hearty laugh. "You see, my wife was a Danish princess. She sometimes complains that she is alone in a world full of Russians. Your wife will be most welcome among Minnie and her circle."

Erik relaxed around the tsar, finding the man actually pleasant to converse with. Yes, he decided, yes he liked this new leader. The tsar found no difficulty in looking over his appearance, nor his foreboding presence. It vaguely reminded him of the old days in Mazenderan…

He grinned under his mask. "Christine's mind will be at ease then."

The tsar sighed. "Have you noticed women worry too much over their appearance in public?" He rolled his eyes heavenward. "And the men suffer for it." He leaned closer to Erik, the saddle moving with his stocky form. "To be honest, I despise going to the Winter Palace during the Season. All it consists of is drinking, dancing, and women running off with men to a dark corner." He smirked at his crude words. "Forgive me for being blunt, but it's true. But Minnie loves it, and so I must concede. I pity you if your wife becomes addicted to them…"

A laugh, filled with indignant irony, escaped Erik. "My wife _knows_ her place, your highness." His curt sentence was the end to their discussion over their wives.

The tsar took note of his guest's icy bearing. The man seemed to be a mix of French and something totally irrelevant to civilized society, something exotic and intriguing—like a rare gem; beautiful, but cold and lifeless. This man reminded him of an assassin, whose agenda was to stay remote and complete a mission to the precise detail.

Personally, he did not enjoy this inconvenient thought, but for some strange, difficult reason he found that he actually liked his new guest. Yes, this man would prove to be beneficial to him. Perhaps be beneficial enough for him to persuade this man and his shy little wife to stay indefinitely. And with that sense of security, he decided to truly befriend this enigmatic stranger.

"_Monsieur_, since you and your wife are my guests, I would appreciate it if we could be informal—outside of the court, mind you." He feigned annoyance, but failed miserably. "I grow tired of you calling me _'your highness.'_ Call me Alexander."

Erik nodded in concurrence. "And you may call me…Erik."

"Erik," Alexander murmured. "Yes, I do believe I like that better than using _'monsieur'_ in every sentence." He chuckled lightly and cast Erik a knowing look. "You know, Erik, I do believe we shall get along handsomely."

…

The rest of the journey was spent on horseback; the conversation between monarch and guest lingered upon simple yet easy topics. The rest of the world followed behind them, oblivious to their amiable exchange.  

At Alexander's insistence, the entourage would continue without stopping for the night. The reluctance in the tsar's expression proved his uneasiness in resting in places which were alien and unfamiliar to him. Besides, he had promised to return to the palace without delay. Of course, it could also be argued that he only desired to return to his family and the long list of neglected duties waiting for him.

Erik did not mind the tsar's impatience. In truth, he desired to see the famed beauty of the Gatchinian countryside and its magnificent palace. Although he toured Russia during his youth, he did not have the chance to gaze upon the famed beauty of the Gatchina palace. Hence, his interest in the renovation of it.

His idle thoughts shifted to Christine. Except for a brief rest at an inn on the way, Christine remained in the carriage, silently trailing behind the large procession. She said nothing to him during their brief rest, only glared at him with obvious disdain. He was tempted to reprimand her childish behaviour, but the idea of keeping up appearances stayed his tongue.

So far, Christine played the part of an obedient, submitting wife. He could not fault her for her good conduct, but her disdainful glares would have to cease. She would have to put away the daggers and replace them with palpable devotion—enough to convince everyone that she truly adored her husband. Somehow, he doubted that she would agree to that. He would, of course, have to remind her of it once they entered the private sanctuary of their chambers.

_Their_ chambers…

He almost smirked at the thought. The idea of Christine retiring with him—allowing people to believe she went _willingly_—and _happily_—with her husband to a place so secret, so intimate almost made him erupt with laughter. He could very well imagine her expression when the realization dawned on her. This torture was truly too enjoyable.

"Look," Alexander said, pointing to a massive silhouetted structure beyond a large copse of trees.

Erik narrowed his eyes to see the outline of a magnificent palace beyond the dense horizon. The sun's dying rays cast an amber gleam against its ivory stonewalls. He maintained a sense of awe as he made his way to the elaborate building.

Gatchina.

Alexander did not conceal his pride for the marvelous structure, nor should he. Not when kingdoms in other countries would easily envy the beauty of Russia's palaces.

The Baroque-style architecture conveyed a certain sense of lost beauty in which other kingdoms had carelessly disregarded for the new, fleeting fashion of the current era. Palaces and estates were refurbished with new and improved means of living, setting aside the old, classic beauty from centuries passed.

It was in that sense that Erik admired Russia for its resilience against change. At least there was still some dignity left here; the temptation to assimilate had apparently not affected the line of tsars or their leadership. It was a pity that other European nations could not follow the same example.

With the wave of his right hand, Alexander gave the order for the large entourage to proceed. The regal disposition of the newly crowned tsar displayed his influence with the silent acquisition of those below him. In truth, he obtained total authority without any opposition. And it was that kind of power which could either destroy a leader or make him or her known figures in history.

Erik briefly questioned how the man beside of him would be remembered: tyrant or saint?

His musings, though passively reflective, were abruptly halted when the palace captured his inattentive gaze. The breath within him almost stopped as pure, undulated shock crashed against him. The Gatchina Palace was an architect's elated fantasy.

With its smooth limestone exterior Erik found the beauty within its militaristic façade. The palace maintained a sense of balance—equal in form. Two, identical square fortresses adorned the structure with curved edges, giving it a sense of medieval appeal. It was a castle parallel to others—not too gaudy or tedious in representation. Even the Shah-in-shah would envy this work of art, especially the deep moat encompassing the grounds.

A small grin traced his concealed lips. Yes, even though this edifice was in dire need of reconstruction, it held the potential like no other. It would be a pleasure to work on this project, adding a few details of from his Masonic genius to enhance the palace's impending radiance.

Oh, yes, Erik would elevate the tsar, moving him from an uneducated second choice to a leader of great importance. The world, especially its leaders, always found strength and confidence from the material splendour supporting them. It would not be difficult to do the same with the Russian leader.

And with that inspiring thought, Erik sighed with content. He had a purpose to continue in this world. The premature idea of suicide no longer appealed to his taciturn nature. He held the world in the palm of his hand, and for once, it looked as if he could manipulate it to his will; master it like one of his compositions. The tsar, Christine, and the others were merely the singers in his grand opéra, and he, the conductor.

His thin brows knitted together from the thought of her. Glancing behind him he noticed the carriage moving at a relatively slow pace. Those who were on horseback also followed at the same speed, displaying a sense of imperial dignity.

Their pursuit ended when Alexander slowed his horse and dismounted from it. He nodded for the others to follow suit and then glanced at Erik. "Erik, I do hope you enjoy your stay," he said with smile.

Erik merely nodded and moved away from the tsar's side, walking silently to the still carriage. Just as one of the footmen was about to open the door, Erik stopped him with his imposing presence. The servant displayed a moment's hesitation before relinquishing his task to the daunting creature before him.

With the servant out of the way Erik opened the door to find a sleeping Christine on the velvet seat. A dark brow rose with mute amusement at the careless way she displayed herself.  The Christine he knew would never be so reckless in her appearance, especially in public.

Shaking his head he gently clasped his hand over one of hers. "It's time to awake, _mon ange,_" he whispered softly, "we are here."

Christine's brilliant eyes opened, her state of bewilderment apparent. She wiped the remnants of sleep away from her eyes, a quiet groan of dismay escaping her. "We are?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear." His hand tightened around hers. "Come, let us go."

With a small sigh of reluctance Christine moved away from the comfortable seat, allowing Erik to escort her out of the carriage. The tiredness in her figure shifted to one of awe. Her light voice gasped in surprise at the magnificent structure before her. "_Mon dieu,"_ was all she could say.

Christine's heart thundered madly in her chest from the foreboding sight. Dear God, what had Erik brought upon them? Cold realization seeped down her aching spine; all confidence within her mind washed away, leaving her with a blank sensation of despair.

Her pulse quickened the moment she felt Erik's hand tighten around hers. She was his captive, even in this beautiful prison. She almost wished that it were an actual dungeon instead of a palace.

She barely noticed the large imposing man come toward her. Her downcast gaze slowly shifted to the nameless man in front of her. Judging by his noble outlook, she presumed she was standing before the tsar, who had sought their company. And even though he smiled at her, she knew that he could order her death at a moment's notice. She meekly nodded in silent respect.

Alexander returned the gesture and captured her attention with his majestic gaze. His magnificent blue eyes bore into hers, their depths revealing nothing but simple delight. "Welcome to my home," his deep voice resonated with contentment. "Welcome to Gatchina, _madam_."

A cold, foreboding sensation percolated within her—the firm grip of abject fear holding her prisoner. She briefly nodded before returning her attention to the resolute structure once more, which left her thunderstruck by its radiance. In spite of this, she felt somewhat threatened by its austere walls.

For although this palace was unmatchable in beauty, Christine had the distinct feeling that tragedy haunted its magnanimous halls—the ghosts from days long since past still holding claim to the abode of the living.

Erik was no longer with her, the numbness of his imprisoning hand forgotten in her deep reflection. She stood amongst a throng of oblivious statues, and she, the only one who was lucid enough to realize the potential danger before them.

Blood chilled within her indigo veins; the fragile, crystallized rubies piercing her sallow flesh. This palace was the personification of animosity; its indigenous anger seeped out of its exterior in frigid waves of visible hostility.

Her breath became shallow as she contemplated this invisible presence, not realizing that another was closer to her, holding more of a threat than the stone edifice in front of her. Cold hands snaked around her, capturing her in their venomous hold. She wanted to scream but her dulcet voice betrayed her, remaining utterly silent.

_"Christine…"_ a voice murmured within the ruddy confines of her mind.

Reality crashed against her as a pair of familiar golden eyes pulled her away from her surreal vision. Erik regarded her with a hint of irritation, silently berating her for her unnatural behaviour.

Christine glanced away from his dissecting gaze and looked at the palace once more. The sight before her baffled her. _Nothing_ was there. The presence of hatred, the lingering shadows of spirits, and the danger—all of it, gone…

Could she have imagined it all? Probably. But why did she still feel uncomfortable, even with Erik by her side? She could not easily set aside her discomfort, believing it to be a forewarning of things to come, and inevitably she knew they would. Something terrible was going to befall this household…she felt it within the core of her soul.

However, her mute trepidation dissipated when she noticed Erik before her. He was like an anchor to her, holding her in place. And for that small comfort she could express her true appreciation of him.

She noticed his stance, full of caution and awareness. His cloaked figure moved close to her, his face before hers. Her eyes widened when she noticed a slight hint of concern within the amber depths of his eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked, almost inaudibly.

"Yes," she murmured, looking at him imploringly; an onslaught of tears threatened to escape her eyes. "Don't leave me." Her voice was a gentle whisper; the plea reflected in it enough to bring a demon to its knees.

The vulnerability in Christine compelled him to evade from her; push her away from his side. But he did neither. Erik squeezed her hand in subtle reassurance. "I would never leave you to the wolves, _mon ange,_" he said; the warm assurance in his voice almost made her cast aside her childish fear. But her solace faded the moment he added his cruel rejoinder:

"For you already have one set upon you." A wild, unnamed emotion gleamed within his feral eyes. "Come," he muttered, nodding to the tsar to continue on to the palace. "The stage is set, Christine. And we must do this act with flawless grace…"

"I know," she whispered, her voice frozen with vile drops of desolation.

His grip on her hand eased. "You are a marvelous actress," he commented, but to Christine it sounded more like an insult. "The angels will certainly weep if you do your role justice."

Christine said nothing. It was obvious that he was ridiculing her. Even after all they had been through, he still harboured a heavy amount of disdain for her. It was just as well, she reflected. At least she would have company in this hell, albeit with a malicious, black devil.

But better the devil you knew, then the devil you didn't…

And with silent deliberation she grasped his hand, as if it were a lifeline; giving her strength to walk by his demonic side, and into the very gates of Hell…

…   

**Author's Note: And it appears that I have a new chapter out before my three months has expired. '**

**I apologise that this chapter is so short… It will certainly be one of my shorter ones, considering it merely highlights their journey to the Gatchina Palace. I did not wish to go into the story any further—I wanted to save the more interesting parts for the next chapter. **

**Oh, and about the Gatchina Palace, for those of you who have not seen it, I plan to upload a picture of it on my site sometime in the near future. I know my description of it was terrible, compared to the true beauty of the palace. It was very difficult to describe it, even with a picture in front of me! **

**All right, now onto answering questions!**

**I know where I had left off in the previous chapter was rather naughty of me—but I could not help it! I had to have a bit of awe mixed with humour in the story; otherwise it would be too dark and depressing… You can expect more cliffhanger quotations in future chapters! _That_ is a certainty! **

**A few of you mentioned Dimitri, and I knew that I could not exclude him from this chapter. For some strange reason Dimitri is a faint representation of Erik at that age, except the circumstances are very different. I wanted to have a slight similarity between them, paralleling their misfortunes…  Going solely by Leroux it's somewhat unclear with Erik's childhood. It never went into too much detail; hence, I merely—subtly—expressed that connection.**

**Now about the God issue… I'm sure many of you have noticed Erik's thoughts and feelings toward that subject. In some areas of my story you have seen the term either being capitalized or not. I do this for a reason. To Erik, he does not care for a god, thus does not show the proper respect or reverence toward one. Christine, on the other hand, does. Thus, the term will be capitalized in her favour. I have always considered Erik to be more agnostic than being an actual atheist. Either way, he does not care about a divine being. And Christine begins to see why Erik is the way he is…**

**And yes, Erik will stay cold and cruel! I cannot see him _happy._ Well, dancing like a mad dervish on a mountaintop happy. It's too frightening for me to even comprehend. I prefer his insanity to a fluffy personality… It sounds too out-of-character for me… However, despite his callousness, I will confess that he will remain pleasing to the masses—at least for the most part in the duration of this story.**

**Oh, and also about Raoul and where he is… Well…he'll not be in it for a bit longer than expected. As you can see, I'm having way too much fun with Erik's vengeance that jumping into Raoul's thoughts and actions would sort of take focus away from the storyline. I have a brief outline already worked out, and this is how it's most likely going to go. But I promise the motive behind his actions _will_ be explained. I'm just a bit wary of jumping scenes so suddenly—because this fic will have a surprising conclusion and well...I have to sadly…keep our beloved vicomte in the background for a bit longer. I promise in time everyone will understand why I am doing this.  **

**Oh, yes, and another thing concerning Raoul… I know that with the events of Philippe's tragic murder Raoul is now, by right, the new Comte de Chagny. However, for the sake of the story, he is still a vicomte until he actually assumes that role. Keep in mind that no one in relation to the Opéra knows that he is still in the country or that Christine is even missing… I hope that I did not spoil anything…but I needed to clear that up.**

**I've noticed in the reviews that some of you are suspicious with my scenes and characters' motives. I will not say anything to give possible spoilers for later chapters, but keep in mind that I usually don't write or add something without a purpose. So…if you believe that you're going to see something again, whether it is vital to the story or not, then you are most likely correct! =) **

**I hope to have the next chapter out before college begins. And hopefully, it will be a bit longer and more interesting. Also, a lot of historical figures will be in it, and it's going to be difficult to capture their personalities, considering history is not always accurate or conclusive on a person… I can only pray I've done Alexander justice so far… '**

**Thanks again for all of your patience and kind reviews! They truly mean a lot to me. =)**


	7. Chapter Six: A Grand Illusion

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Six.

_The Gatchina Palace, Russia_

Christine's fear perpetuated to unprecedented horror as her wretched eyes fell upon the magnificent finery before her. Marble floors gleamed against the crystal chandeliers, displaying their alabaster beauty. White columns, adorned with gold, engulfed the room, portraying the wealth and majesty of the Romanov household.

Her bloodless hand tightened in Erik's.

She felt unworthy to be in these magnanimous halls. Like a peasant she tainted its glorious splendour with her ignoble bloodline; she was no more than a common thief trespassing in the king's court, passing herself off to be something she was not. And inside, she felt ill for the unwanted fabrication.

Her tide of dark remorse, however, ebbed as she noticed the figure of woman enter her domain of thought. From the hard lines in her face and austere posture she obtained, Christine noted that the lady was a servant, employed by the Romanov family for many a year.

"Your highness," she demurred in a guttural voice, bowing to him with reverence. Her watery eyes then fell upon Christine, a hint of disgust lingered within their metallic depths.

Alexander paid no heed to the chambermaid's glare, instead had the audacity to ask for the whereabouts of his wife. The maid blanched, saying that her royal highness was entertaining one of the noble families from the capital.

"Dear God," the tsar muttered to himself, "she is _always_ entertaining someone." He eyed the maid with a new wave of provocation. "See to the needs of my guests; find a maid to attend to them and prepare their rooms."

His regal command was not questioned. "It has already been done. Her highness saw to the preparations early this afternoon."

Alexander, irritated with the maid's clipped statement, replied, "Then have the maid sent for!"

"As his highness wishes," she demurred once more, her back to him in imperial grace as she quit the room.

Cheeky wench, he thought. Oh, how he loathed the very presence of the odious maid. Her sour looks and proud nature had always angered him. Especially when his father favoured her over the rest of the servants, and it was a pity he knew why. Perhaps it was time to be rid of this minute threat. At least he had the authority now…

Turning a weary eye toward Erik, he muttered his apologies for the deplorable welcoming. "My wife is usually never so relaxed in her receiving of new guests. Actually, she's quite the opposite."

"Opposite? How so, my dear husband?" a bright voice questioned him with a hint of mirth.

Alexander glared at his beautiful dark-eyed wife, but his angry countenance faltered as he laughed. "I suppose you had this greeting planned?"

"Actually, I was under the impression that you were not coming so early. You completely caught me off guard," she replied, her perfect French a merry twirl.

Alexander's features remained a mask of stone. Unconvinced by his wife's subtle grin, he rejoined, "Then I gather that our guests' rooms have _not_ been prepared?" His blue eyes gleamed with chagrined knowledge. "I sent word that—"

"I knew," the tsarina laughed, purposely interrupting her bemused husband. "If I recall in your message, I believe that you wanted me to have a modest greeting instead of something grand and worthy of remembrance?" Her obsidian eyes glanced at the silent couple behind him. "Besides, I believe the court can wait a few days before introductions are properly made."

With a sigh of hidden appreciation, Alexander only nodded to his wife. Their gazes locked. And for a moment their private audience saw their strange connection, which had inexplicably bound them, just as they were cast as being rulers of a country. The tsarina understood the concealed disconsolation of his private loss.

Without regarding her unnamed guests, she gave her full attention to her husband. Wordlessly, she consoled him with her own, personal sorrow and regret for his hopeless quest. True, he was grateful that others had survived the accident, but nothing could replace an old comrade from his days at the military academy.

Sergei Usupov, a distant relative to one of Russia's most esteemed families, was one of the few men Alexander had willingly confided in. After his father's murder, Alexander had changed, casting aside his friendly air to one of cold suspicion. Everyone in his household was suspect to the guerilla party, which had inevitably destroyed his father.

And yet, it was Sergei who had tried to console the irate heir apparent, and eventually breached an understanding to the still-grieving son's plight. His flight out of the country was unexpected and gave the newly crowned tsar pause. And then fate intervened…

The empress remembered the striking news with painful clarity: Hell had reigned in their household—and in her husband's mind—for over a week. The news of the accident and the frenetic gossip that followed of possible survivors had only hastened his journey to the tragic site. She recalled that his undying hope was the only confidence that he had. And sadly, she knew that his attempts to find Sergei were in vain.

She could see the weariness in his tired eyes: the great tsar of imperial Russian had sadly set aside his time for grieving to entertain a couple he barely knew.

Alexander mirrored his wife's concern and quietly grasped her welcoming hand. It had indeed been a tiring and almost effortless journey across the frozen borderlands of his massive kingdom. And although he dreaded the outcome of coming to terms with the tragic loss of a dear friend, he strangely—and inexorably—found a new ally in Erik.

His brief enlightenment forced him to remember introductions. Clearing his throat, he glanced at Erik, then to his wife. "My manners have apparently evaded me." His apology was strained, forced by his masculine pride.

"Indeed they have," the tsarina retorted, and then smiled at the silent couple. "It is usually _I_ who begins the introductions. I am Marie Feodorovna, and of course—" She gestured to her unimpressed husband. "You know my husband. I welcome you to our home, and hope that your stay is pleasant." She bowed to them with refined grace.

"My wife and I are honoured, your highness, truly." Erik spoke for the first time, his sonorous voice echoing in the foyer.

Marie's eyes widened from the gracious courtesy. Never before had she heard a voice so unnatural, so beautiful that she was awed by the very presence of it. Her gaze focused upon the strange man, seeing him for the first time. Her heart almost plummeted from the very reaches of her soul as she considered the man Alexander had conveniently hidden behind him.

Shadows consumed the imposing figure, adding another shade of obscurity to his dark being. His towering form, in truth, dwarfed her husband. It was strange to see someone—something—so inexplicably enigmatic. And yet, where the shadows consumed him, the mask—oh, the ghastly cracked visage only escalated her trepidation. Not to mention those hideous yellow eyes…

But she hid her unease well under a genteel smile of appeasement. "It is I who am bestowed with that honour, _monsieur._" She inclined her head with innate regality. "I will be happy to have you and your wife in my home for the duration of your stay."

Erik said nothing as the tsarina smiled at them. Her unease of his presence was unambiguous. However, she said nothing and revealed no unwanted to desire to reject them. Apparently, her anxiety melted as she noticed Christine. Perhaps he could endure the reluctant presence of the Danish beauty, and actually tolerate her probing stare.

Marie made a hesitant step towards them, her reservation well hidden. "And now for your names. I loathe the idea of using such formal titles."

It was apparently a shared trait between husband and wife, Erik noted, as he watched the tsarina inspect them with a sharp eye.

Her inquisitive gaze then unfortunately fell upon Christine, the probing dark eyes pressing for her to speak. Christine blanched, and with heavy reluctance, she overcame her momentary lapse of courtesy. Looking away from the marble floor her reticent eyes regarded the empress with timid sincerity. "My name is Christine Daa—"

"De Maricourt," Erik interjected, his timing of correcting her fatal mistake was perfect. "My wife has a tendency to use her maiden name."

A fleeting look of confusion marred Marie's lovely face. However, the perplexity over his words evaded her, leaving a smile in its wake. "I understand how your wife must feel,_ monsieur_." She laughed. "I was the same way when I first married my husband." Her smile widened. "It is something that one must become accustomed to, over time, of course."

Christine almost flushed from the tsarina's kind words. She noticed the true sincerity and benevolence in Marie's dark eyes. Few had ever welcomed her within the confines of their home, and even fewer obtained the munificence in their words. Christine watched the tsarina's movements and stately manner. She had the look of a refined woman, born to privilege and all the finery of the realm. Her dark hair was pulled away from her flawless face with several pearl-handled pins. Her dress was also graceful; the periwinkle gown accentuated her features to noted perfection.

She felt wretched in the tsarina's presence. Oh, if only Erik could find some way to escape… She felt like a prisoner, trapped in a grand design of brilliance and decadence. But her wishes were callously cast aside; Erik's comfortable air with the tsar was an ill omen to her fate.

Much to her displeasure, she somewhat felt a touch of awe for the Russian court, however little she was exposed to thus far. She liked beautiful things, and the Gatchina Palace was certainly beautiful. And although its outer façade reminded her of a militant fortress, she was enchanted with the inside beauty of its foyer.

Her head turned from the warm conversation, muting it as she observed the intricate detail of the inside vestibule. The meticulous carvings and crown molding charmed her like an ingenious child at a fair.

However, her delight shattered the moment she felt a warm hand touch her shoulder. She turned, startled by the unexpected contact of another. Her azure eyes met a pair of delighted obsidian, and the innate anxiety vacated her once more.

"I see that you are taking in the view," the tsarina laughed. "It is rather daunting when one gazes upon it for the first time."

"It's beautiful," Christine murmured. "I have never seen anything like it before."

The tsarina turned her back on the men, concerned only with Christine's attention. "Surely you jest. A woman from the modernized world would certainly look upon this humble household with kind reservation." Her dark eyes glittered with unhidden gaiety. "We impersonate the French too much. It's a pity we use their language instead of the native Russian."

Christine smiled under the circumstances. "But at least I can understand you."

A sable brow rose in amusement. "You were worried that you would not?"

"I was a little concerned, yes. I have never been to Russia before; I did not know what to expect," she whispered, a small blush gracing her cheeks.

Marie took Christine's hand in hers. Glancing furtively over to her oblivious husband, she whispered into Christine's ear: "Expect everything, my dear. And accept it for what it is, not by first glance."

The whispered advice dispensed within the hollow depths of her memory, and a vague, all-too-familiar scenario contrasted Marie's words. The tsarina's counsel would have aided her so many months ago…

Setting aside her brief interlude of remorseful musings, she smiled, despite her weak countenance. "It is very wise advice, your highness. I shall take it to heart."

Marie's smile widened. "You know, _Madam _de Maricourt, I do believe that we shall be very good friends. Very good friends, indeed."

Before Christine could dwell upon the almost-welcome invitation, she noticed a servant make her way silently into the foyer. The girl was around sixteen, she presumed, and sparse of any attractive features. With her plain countenance and downcast eyes, Christine saw the visible trepidation within the servant's bland appearance. It was apparent that she feared being in the presence of the royal family.

"Ah, Olga actually did her duty," Alexander muttered under his breath. His cold eyes fell upon the submissive maid. "Have my guests' belongings taken to their rooms."

"Your highness," the servant murmured, not daring to meet her benefactor's harsh gaze.

A silent moment, filled with unexpected tension, lingered within the massive foyer—the sovereigns, their guests, and the servant all mute and vacant of speech. It was as if they were fixed in a painting, strangely positioned in such an impudent manner. And then a sudden display of Alexander's growing impatience shattered the abstract image.

The maid looked up, but did not meet the tsar's dispassionate gaze, and instead fell upon the couple behind him. Her green eyes widened with horror as she looked upon the cracked impassive mask. Her breath shuddered within her delicate throat as she tried to retain some dignity in her stance, but miserably failed as her fear abandoned her sense of propriety.

"Oh, the blessed saints save me!" She crossed herself with a trembling hand. Her bronzed face paled before her audience, the last of her strength leaving her as she cried to the unseen saints above.

Another cry escaped her, this one tinged with the telltale fear of seeing a fabled monster for the first time. And dear God, what an impression it made.

Alexander stood, unmoved by the girl's crazed ravings. Clearly, madness had overclouded her sense of clarity. He made a move to prevent her from the inevitable realization, which would follow her bout of insanity.

But his attempts to catch the girl were in vain. She fell, coldly to the marble floor, a mound of wrinkled skirts and disheveled blonde hair.

Marie was the first to break the gauche silence by calling for the valet stationed at the end of the hall. Moving to the girl's side, she watched the maid's erratic breathing and fallen state as she waited for the valet's aid.

Seeing him, she silently ordered him to administer care to the unconscious maid. "Bring a cold cloth and fetch a few others; the girl has had a fainting spell." Seeing the valet's hesitation, she ordered him to move without delay.

Even in the worst of circumstances the tsarina remained poised, in her element; prepared to accept a given task. Christine realized with painful clarity that she could never equal a woman who could contend with any crisis. She watched in fascinated horror as the empress' commands were followed to the highest degree.

Within minutes the valet returned, along with a few other servants and lifted the lethargic figure from the marble floor. The host of servants removed the inert maid and quit the foyer without a word. Marie shook her head in disgust at the embarrassing incident.

"I apologise for the scene. We sadly have these incidents…from time to time."

Erik said nothing regarding the incident; his imposing silence spoke for him. His unnatural eyes quietly placated the tsarina, his regal nod full of understanding. "Even royal households have flaws, your highness. Human perfection is an illusion."

_Illusion._

Marie remained silent, afraid to say anything more to her abstruse guest. His potent words were filled with icy dissolution, as if subtly convincing her that he despised his fellowman, his hatred for others visible within the fiery flecks in his golden eyes.

She wanted to question his reasoning; understand his hatred, but could not find the courage to voice her thoughts. And like a coward, she turned to her husband, silently bidding him to speak and break the awkward silence.

Alexander did not disappoint her.

Looking at Erik, he all but frowned. "That is why God places the common man under the rule of kings, for they cannot rule themselves." He gestured for them to proceed out of the foyer. "Come, we shall celebrate this evening with—"

"Your highness?" a tremulous voice interrupted him.

"Yes?" Alexander muttered, irritated as he turned to a middle-aged valet. "What is it?"

A greying head inclined with deep regret as he stumbled over a choked apology. "An ambassador from Germany has come to call; I left him in your study."

Controlled anger, mixed with acute displeasure, contorted the tsar's harsh features. Christ, he had forgotten about his meeting with the grim wretch that hailed from such a barbaric nation. The meeting itself would last for countless hours in an on-going debate about the peace between their countries.

"Tell the ambassador I shall be there shortly," he said, steel within his voice. "And show him the courtesy we Russians give our German guests."

Watching the timid servant exit the foyer, he said, "I suppose we will have to forego any introductions with my presence." His eyes fell upon Marie. "Minnie?"

The tsarina gave him a gracious smile. "I shall take of everything from here. Do not worry."

Alexander sighed. "Don't overtax them with _too_ many introductions," he whispered in her ear, "I would hate for them to leave so soon."

"I have other plans," she murmured, then grinned. "Enjoy your meeting, and give my regards to the ambassador."

Her husband smiled, pleased by his wife's teasing humour. "With pleasure, my dear." He gave her a curt nod, then looked at Erik and Christine. "Enjoy the rest of the evening. I shall look forward to seeing both of you tomorrow." And with that, he left the room, imperious and regal like a true monarch mandated by the heavens.

Marie glanced at her husband's retreating figure and sighed, almost relieved that a semblance of peace had finally returned from the momentary chaos. Shaking her head, she turned to her guests. "State business with my husband is always indefinite." A faint grin teased her lips. "It is something one must become accustomed to, I suppose. However, that it is not important at the moment…" She eyed Erik warily, as if hesitant to speak to him. But her etiquette did not fail her in this. "I believe that your journey has been quite taxing for you, and I understand if you desire to retire for the evening."

"Your assumptions are correct, your highness." Erik eased her wariness with his hypnotic voice. "My wife and I would like to retire now."

Seeing the relief in Christine's eyes, Marie smiled. "The royal court can wait another day." She turned, urging them to follow her. "Come, I will personally show you to your rooms."

…

True to her word, Marie led them to their rooms. It was strange, Christine realized, that the tsarina would go out of her way to see to the personal comforts of her newly arrived guests—guests she knew relatively little of.

All the same, Marie's courtesy and light chatter eased the tension between she and Erik. After the horrible incident in the foyer she felt a promise of angry retribution festering within his austere form—Vesuvius before the destruction of Pompeii.

Her hollow eyes widened a fraction. God, she felt as if she could read the silent tremours quaking within her captor's soul, the conclusion of such unpromising knowledge left her in a dire disposition.

She did not wish to read his thoughts, his feelings—not now. It was difficult to understand the mad sanity within his abstract reasoning. If she could understand his calculative approach of things, then…

A shiver wrought down her spine. Christ, this was madness, sheer madness.

And yet the madness seemed all too welcoming, for it was the only thing she could count on, expect. And it was in this slight sense of comfort she could follow the graceful stride of the empress.

Marie left them at the massive double-door entrance. Christine noticed the intricate design of gold and antique ivory on the doors before Marie made a final welcoming comment upon their stay and bade them a good night.

Christine watched the retreating figure of the petite tsarina; a silent prayer of Marie's abrupt return almost passed her wavering lips. She felt a sigh escape her with the cruel knowledge that she was not alone.

Erik's presence permeated the dimly lit hall with darkness, engulfing it with his enigmatic intentions. The leather touch of his gloved fingers gently caressed her shoulder, silently reminding her that he was still there, firm and unyielding by her silent plea for escape. Her liberation would not come without a price, the cold caress of his plaguing touch vowed. No, not after the long chain of false words and shattered dreams she had promised him. The deceitful golden string had finally reached its end, leaving her without to spin another false tale.

But for all of her fabrications, the momentary fear etched within her beautiful face was almost believable. She _knew_, or at least had a slight inclination of what was to come. His ploy of their marriage had worked, and now the truest test lay before them…

It would be unwise to raise question as to their preferred sleeping arrangements. Propriety was only in favour for those who were not married. Estranged couples, even those who sought other more, discreet liaisons, still shared the fastidious notion of fidelity.

"Come," the indifferent command passed his cold lips.

Christine obeyed, the will to object lying dormant within her.

A dark hand clasped onto the golden doorknob, turning it in a meticulous fashion. The ivory door opened without the horrid screech she was familiar with. It was a pity her old dressing room door at the Opéra was not as reputable.

The brief memory of her old life gave her courage to enter. Her hesitation did not overcome her certainty, the confidence within her steps urged her to delve deeper into the room, eyeing it with a peculiar fascination that only a child could appreciate.

Her curiosity did not fail her. For there, within this silent room lay a history of a land alien to her; a wealth of knowledge painted within the oily façades of the images trapped within their gilded frames.

The room was engulfed by firelight. Flames of ardent amber and fiery garnet highlighted the azure walls with their passionate colours. A foray of candles added to the prelude of their magnificent display.

If Erik's stygian domain was the mortal version of Hell, then this wondrous room was truly Heaven. Beauty lay within the very hollows of this oval-shaped space. Raoul's esoteric château dimmed in comparison to the Gatchina Palace.

Such wonder compelled her, giving her the impression of feeling a certain affinity to such effulgence.

But her brief illusion was shattered as the forgotten presence of her tormentor resumed his place at the center of her mind. His skeletal fingers, uncovered now, coiled around her shoulders. She felt him urge her to turn, look at him, and discern his masked expression.

She complied, waiting for his unknown response. Her eyes stared into the invasive depths of his golden eyes. The mirrored expression in the tawny orbs was a complete paradox. Unlike the demanding touch of his fingers, his eyes bore into her soul, reading it, construing her innermost thoughts and feelings. His awareness of her confusion was apparent within his eyes.

Erik read her so well.

Her shoulders moved under his uninvited touch, silently pleading for him to release her.

He refused, his hold on her increasing with each passing second. The resolute silence, combined with his mute omission, revealed his true intention: she was still his prisoner, and this beautiful room, her prison.

Christine almost swayed in his arms. Her beautiful chimera of images was stripped of its radiant splendour and replaced with the dull reality of her situation. Guest or not, in Erik's eyes she remained the same: a cold, heartless jade with a fickle mind. She was the reason for his unrighteous fury. She was the one who committed the ultimate sin—the betrayal of his trust and the cruel repercussions, which had followed.

She realized his desire to punish her extended beyond her meager comprehension. And although she prayed for an extension on her torture, she regretted that her prayers would go unanswered. And thus, her resolve against him weakened—leaving him to do with her as he would.

Her weakness overshadowed his anger, her realization a casualty of war. The harsh imprisonment of his hands lightened, leaving her to silently contemplate his next move.

"You shall rest now," he said, moving to the closed doors, locking them.

Christine followed his apathetic gaze to the bed—the only bed, she realized.

She inwardly frowned at the suggestive prospect. For although the oval room was well furnished, it contained a single bed. The massive obstruction before her was inviting. However, she could not accept its comforting promise of sleep.

The very notion of lying beside of… Dear God, she could not even bring herself to think about that possibility—it was sinful, almost blasphemous. And yet, despite his frigid touch, she felt a slight sense of ease from him, bittersweet relief.

Would it be immoral to at least share a room with him? Her premature belief of having a separate room instilled a childlike naivety in her mind. She did not consider the possibility of staying in this room, alone, with him. Her ill-considered knowledge made her appear to be a fool.

Her desire to leave almost overcame her better judgment as she bolted to the locked door. A hand seized her arm, its vise-like grip tightening malevolently. A small gasp escaped her before another hand closed over her mouth.

"What are you doing, you little fool?" Erik questioned, his deep melodic voice tinged with raw fury.

His hand eased away from her pale lips. "I…I…" she stuttered, tears threatening to escape her frightened eyes. "I cannot do this, Erik! I cannot…" she faltered, fearful to continue.

"Christine, look at me." As if compelling her to do his bidding, her watery eyes regarded his with tacit apprehension. His forceful grasp lightened, tenderly gracing her covered arms.

"Erik…" It was a plea.

A dignified hand moved away from her arm and quietly wiped a saltine tear away from her eye. He felt her shiver under his reticent touch. Ignoring the fleeting sensation of her mixed emotions, he stared at the wavering expression in her eyes. Her ingenious guise seemed innocent, almost trusting.

She reminded him of the timid girl he first encountered when he watched her cry through her dressing room mirror. The same tears fell from her translucent eyes even now.

His anger dissipated into a nebulous cloud of doubt and dissolution. Christine's wordless plea was enough to drive him away from her arms. And yet, he found that he could not. No matter how much he yearned to release her, relinquish the beauty in his arms, his selfish nature rebelled, compelling him not to submit to her.

"Christine…" his sonorous voice beheld her name with its angelic timbre.

So much conflict, so much uncertainty lay within his gentle tone. His yellow eyes were no longer daunting in the firelight, their unnatural gleam melding into the soft light from the flames.

It was the same eyes that held her, delved into the hidden and most private hollows of her soul. He could see her fear, the insecurity of her own, personal hell. However, his gaze did not mirror her fears. He did not harbour the same concern as she.

The listless veil of indifference clouded his eyes once more. His masked face descended, a fraction of an inch away from hers. "Christine," he whispered, "you know that this cannot be undone. I cannot—will not—ask the tsar for another room."

His decision was final, she sadly realized.

Another tear fell from an azure eye. "This is difficult, Erik…" she murmured under a tremulous breath. "I fear that I cannot—"

"You can," he interrupted.

"But—"

"And you will…" he finished cryptically.

Christine moved within his imperious embrace. The war between them was over, and inevitably, Erik had won. The conquered party would, as such, yield and admit defeat—albeit unwillingly. Christine felt the bitter taste of her concrete loss, the monumental will behind her conscious beliefs was once again, shattered.

It was a war she could never hope to win.

"You know I will always bend to your will, Erik," she whispered, a hint of dejection in her ethereal voice.

His cold, listless breath descended upon her ivory throat. The flawless pale flesh took on a golden hue from the firelight. Every tendon and sinew of her blessed throat—the blessed throat that concealed her voice—quivered under his apathetic scrutiny.

Despite her inadequate shiver, he silently observed that the instrument, which he so tenaciously constructed, was within his reach. A traitorous hand graced the tender flesh, feeling the living marble move under its touch. Something akin to unprecedented awe filled him, flooded his calculative mind with idle thoughts of grandeur.

The living statue before him was a distraction; a beautiful, lascivious distraction that he could not afford to lose himself in, for it was this same distraction, which nearly ended his life.

And regrettably, he no longer had the will or patience to endure another moment of her lamentations of her poor, unfortunate fate. Her pleading eyes wrenched the remaining fortitude he had for her. No matter how much she pleaded or cried, she would _never_ return to a normal, happy life—it was over the moment the assassin's bullet entered his profane form.

His hand removed itself from her throat. "And my will for you is to rest," his enigmatic words cajoled her. "Sleep, Christine. Dream, and forget this nightmare. If you desire, then escape it…if only for a short time."

He led her to the massive bed, silently persuading her to comply. She obeyed, albeit reluctantly, pulling the velvet coverlet away from the sheets. The disinclined acquiescence on Christine's part made Erik release her captive shoulder. "Dream, _mon ange,_" he silently commanded, "find comfort, for tomorrow will prove to be hellish indeed."

Christine's bewildered eyes darted from the inveigling sheets to his anomalous visage. She willed herself to remain silent but her mouth spoke with its treacherous words. "Good night, Erik." Her lips trembled from the faithless admission.

"And to you," he whispered quietly, then departed from her side.

_And to you…_

Her heart beat irregularly from the soft-spoken words, the blood within her veins thickened with abrupt dismay. Breath within her lungs unsteady, unsure of how to regulate itself. A hand came to her breast, as if protecting her, shielding the vulnerable throbbing muscle within it.

Erik's enigmatic voice once again set her on edge; his soft reproach, the touch of sincerity behind it. But that was not her only concern. No, it was the hint of emotion within his eyes, those foreboding eyes that mirrored the darkness of his soul.

Always she had noticed the icy desolation within the golden orbs. The same, cold expression he managed to obtain—until now. A semblance of humanity, touched with a fleck of regret, tainted the troubled eyes, which bore so deeply into hers. It was when he stared at her, observing her exposed throat.

It was in that unguarded moment that she saw the certainty stripped away from him, the hideous face behind the mask exposed. And yet, it was not the physical countenance that she feared, but the entity that dwelled beyond its corporeal fetters.

And for an ignorant moment she felt intrinsically compelled to see beyond his carefully constructed lies. Perhaps it was the key to saving his wretched soul, his wretched soul that bound her to its relentless hold.

But his weakness vanished, as if it had never existed. And once again she stood, face to face, with her captor, her tormentor, her beloved Angel of Music.

The words from her enervated state returned to her, haunting her with their prophetic meaning. Ah, yes, she would always bend herself to his will. No matter how much she desired to evade the truth, she could never escape it: She was his—forever and a day.

And Raoul…

…Would most likely never see her again…

And with that cruel realization she sank into the comforting arms of sleep, allowing a benevolent Morpheus to grace her once more with a myriad of blissful dreams contrived of vivid splendour and beautiful imagery.

She fell into a comatose state, her mind bombarded with images from the stories of her beloved father. Peace was found within her dreams. Peace and the subtle comfort of knowing that, within the realm of her dreams, nothing from the real world could harm her. Nothing. Not even her present dilemma.

But for all of her chaste delight, Erik's imposing presence lingered like an ominous shadow within the back of her indolent mind, always present, and never fully leaving her.

…

The blissful yearnings of her self-deluded dreams not coming to pass wrenched her from their peaceful embrace. The harsh light from the callous sun broke through the transparent windowpanes, forcing her to gaze upon its blinding radiance.

Christine rubbed her tired eyes with a cold, numb hand, not feeling the infernal chill of the room. She glanced at the fireplace, its dying embers proof of the room's lack of warmth.

Her hands innately rubbed her arms, trying to preserve her remaining warmth. "Dear God," she murmured to herself as she pulled the sheets away. Her eyes trailed over the wrinkled fabric of her gown.

Grimacing, she moved away from the bed, instantly regretting the contact with the marble floor. The stone tiles were ice to her bare feet; a thousand unnerving sensations tormented her tender flesh.

She frowned, noticing that she was the only occupant in the room. Her mind quickly reverted back to the events of the past evening, focusing upon another inescapable argument, followed by a bout of discarded fears.

Anguish masked her somnolent features. Raoul. The expectant smile on his boyish face waned as the impending shadow of disillusionment enveloped him in a cloud of ignominy and utter despair. The harsh reality of the situation—her situation—bound not only her soul, but his as well.

In her momentary blindness she irrevocably forfeited any chance of returning to her life without suffering in the process. Her altruistic notions had condemned her, chained her to the will of another.

Christ in Heaven, she was a fool.

She ached with the painful knowledge of her choice. Her fatalistic action was the countermove hat she had originally intended. It coincided perfectly to what Erik had anticipated.

Bemusement replaced her short-lived anguish. Perhaps madness was finally settling in, replacing her deep conviction in her personal sanity.

The question was, however, did she regret it? Could she honestly change her monumental decision on that ill-fated train, or would she remain on this unknown course, clinging blindly to the steadfast determination of a madman? She had no answer.

Christine's eyes darkened from the ephemeral turmoil, her mind vacant of rational thought. Mechanically she retrieved the small valise she had brought with her. Her thin fingers traced over the worn leathery surface before opening it.

White hands delved madly into the contents of the valise, searching for a suitable garment. Their search was not in vain as they removed a wrinkled night shift.

She frowned at its ghastly appearance, noting how poorly her journey had treated it. Nevertheless, relief etched in the lines of her frown; she was grateful that Aurelia was not present to see the state of it.

In addition to the nightshift, her tea gown was the only remaining garment she had. It was a pity she did not express her gratitude for the nightshift before her departure. A tinge of guilt stabbed her heart, the memory of her distressing exodus causing another pang of senseless regret.

It no longer mattered, her mind reasoned; her decision had inevitably compromised her will. No longer would she be able to fight the fates and change the course of her life. But did she really have the gift of free will? Somehow she doubted her credulous beliefs, even now she felt as if her life had already been written out, waiting for her to play her tragic role.

Every movement, every action, every regret—all were predestined for her to live out. And sadly, she was unable to break that inexorable cycle.

And so she played her part, submitting to Fate's iron will.

As she finished the mundane task of smoothing the wrinkles from her dress Christine's hands delved once more into the bag's leathery confines, removing a small object wrapped in fine linen.

The soft cloth fell, revealing a dangerous blade. Its metallic surface gleamed ominously in the sunlight, almost blinding its possessor. Christine squinted against the intense luster of the blade's edge as her fingers tentatively traced over the dagger's sharp surface, precariously tempting its dormant wrath.

In truth, Christine had always feared them. The idea of facing the sharp edge of a knife, and never knowing its dark intent, frightened her. It was a prospect, which occurred often enough with those who were less fortunate. But had not yet come to pass with her. She silently prayed that she would not meet such a terrible end.

Her fatalistic musings melded into the dagger before her. The silver edge contrasted against its golden handle as tiny rubies added to the dagger's elaborate design. Strangely it could somewhat be considered beautiful—a beautiful instrument that had the ability to kill. Christine's hand carelessly clasped around the blade, silently daring it to sever her delicate palm.

But much to her dismay, her hand remained intact. A slight frown puckered her daunted features, making her seem older than her nineteen years. The disappointment was also evident in the flaccid posture of her delicate figure.

Yet her lapse of wisdom prevailed over reason; and surprisingly, she _wanted_ the dagger to cut her hand. She wanted to feel pain that ached inside of her. Feeling something physical, something tangible could certainly awaken her from this unwanted nightmare. She would feel safer, be more confident of herself.

Or would she?

Her thoughtless actions seemed trite, almost redundant. She reiterated her present dilemma to the point of being tedious, and she felt ashamed of herself for acting in such a childish manner.

Erik was right, she thought miserably. She was nothing more than a child, a child whose main objective was to believe in a world without pain or death. She wanted a world without chaos, a world that was without flaws. But it was only a beautiful fantasy…

Penitent tears fell from her eyes. "Hold to your promise, Christine," she murmured to herself; the note of conviction within her voice forced her to return from the precipice of madness. Sanity prevailed over her momentary lapse of judgment.

Her troubled gaze fell to the blade's mirror surface. A frown tainted her pallid features from the reflection. She looked positively hideous. Her hair was unkempt, matted from a night's restless slumber. Twin dark half moons lingered under her tired eyes, cruelly adding to her disheveled appearance.

"Dear God," she muttered dejectedly.

Was this what Erik saw her as—a silly, lovesick child that did not realize the true peril that she faced? God, the acrimony behind his judgment almost blinded her mental eye with vivid images of her folly.

Again she felt helpless as her ignorance of the unknown prevailed, withdrawing her from the civilized world.

A dispassionate hand retrieved the dagger's cloth and wrapped it around the sacred metal once more. Purpose replaced her uncertainty as an onslaught of determination stayed her puerile tears.

A strange sense of comfort surrounded her; filled her, invoking her with an addictive solace. Was this what madness felt like? she wondered. To feel the need to cry one moment and laugh the next… If so, then Erik was perhaps justified in his lunacy. She laughed, despite herself.

No more would she cry over her alleged misfortune. Her decisions—past and present—were for her to make and live by. Lamenting over her mistakes would never aid her, or even save her from tragedy.

And so she removed herself from all doubt and dissolution. Her fate rested solely in Erik's bloodstained hands, as it always had, and as it always would.

The strange sensation of permanence made her faintly smile. What would it be like to live for the rest of her life by his side? Or more amusingly, as if his wife? The arcane possibility had briefly crested upon the shores of her thoughts before, but never manifested itself into a true, tangible vision of reality.

Erik's prophecy of their wedded union had inevitably come to pass, at least in a pretense. But despite all of the illusions and lies, she wondered if there was more to marriage than just keeping appearances? She doubted that Erik would go further than his intended fabrication of the truth. He was many things, but a defiler of women he was not. Of that, she was certain.

There was kindness still in his unforgiving heart. And she thought she saw an inkling of it during their absurd quarrel. And therein lie the hope of somehow redeeming him.

Perhaps if she could prove to him that she could be everything he wanted her to be—to play the part of his wife, and somehow make him see the truth behind her intentions, then perhaps he would realize that she never intended to cause his endless pain.

But what if that meant the sacrifice of her freedom? Could she live with him, knowing that she had forfeited the life and dreams she had lovingly built with Raoul? The permanence behind such a decision was not something she could take lightly. Nor could she ponder on that unwanted possibility at this time.

The time for such an assessment was not at present, and she would not consider it until that choice came. Her hands removed the wrinkles from her gown, forgetting the transitory movement of her vexed thoughts.

A resounding knock interrupted her meager attempts of appearing civilized. Her eyes fell to the concealed dagger, sheer panic obscuring her vision.

The incessant knocking continued, as if taunting her with the subtle knowledge of her fear. Christine cradled the weapon against her breast, moving to her side of the bed. Without hesitation, she placed it in between the mattresses, making sure that it could not be found.

Her hands quietly smoothed the wrinkled surface of the sheets, obscuring the secret their veiling façade maintained. Glancing at her work she quietly assured herself that no one would ever find it, even if someone were actually looking for something to condemn her.

"_Madam_ de Maricourt," a meek, feminine voice called. "_Madam_, are you in there?"

The mousy voice surprised Christine. "Yes," she answered, quickly moving to the door. "Just a moment, please."

Her nervous fingers fumbled with the doorknob before she successfully opened the door. Christine glanced at the nervous girl before her. Soft hazel eyes regarded hers with a hint of sincerity.

"I apologize for disturbing you, _madam_. But the empress desires to see you."

Noticing the composed expression of the girl, who, by the looks of it, appeared only a year younger than she, only waited for Christine to answer.

"The empress?" Christine asked; her expression clouded with surprise.

A hint of speculation traced the girl's ashen features. "Yes, she wished for your presence as soon as you were able to come." A small flush stained her sallow cheeks. "I am here to ready your toilette and help you dress." She glanced at Christine's muddled attire, scrutinizing the wrinkled gown.

"Do you know what you wish to wear?" Innocent eyes glanced at the wrinkled dress.

"I'm afraid not." Christine blushed, casting her mortified gaze to the floor.

Understanding reached the eyes of the maid. "It must have been a very difficult time for you." Perceiving her mistress' expression of confusion, she quickly added, "Everyone in the capital has heard of your escape from the accident." Tangible awe touched her voice. "I am honoured to be in the presence of a lady who has overcame such obstacles. You are an inspiration to many,_ madam_."

Utter shock engulfed Christine. "Me?" she asked, her state of confusion complete. "How can I inspire people whom I do not know?"

"Your will to survive has alone made many believe that God is still with them. So many have abandoned the belief that a higher power actually cares for them." A touch of remorse replaced her subtle smile. "Russia has gone so long not being in the sight of God. We—I—began to believe the Russian people were truly forsaken…"

The young woman's docile voice drifted off into the infinite realm of uncertainty. Her lank brown hair shielded her disconsolate expression, the remnants of a bitter memory, long forgotten, had seemed to temporally manifest itself within the forefront of her mind, and almost being uttered aloud for the world to acknowledge.

However, the restraint behind such a careless, foolish action won over the fleeting impulse, leaving her to remain silent. And that profound silence disturbed Christine.

But before she could find the words to ask what her companion meant the timid voice spoke. "I am sure you are perhaps questioning my silly ramblings. Forgive me. My mindless thoughts have a way to express themselves."

True admiration could be found within Christine's luminous eyes. "Not at all," she murmured, her soothing voice trying to convince the girl of her sincerity. "In truth, I am happy to see someone who speaks with such conviction and truth." She placed a comforting hand of the maid's shoulder. "Do not ever be concerned about what you say or believe in front of me."

Christine saw the maid's shocked expression. Unreserved surprise mixed with sheer disbelief engulfed the petite figure, clearly unsettled by her compassionate words. She all but gaped at her. The evident statement within those hazel eyes spoke volumes of doubt: it was odd to see such conduct and behaviour from another—and a lady no less.

She inclined her head in gratitude. "_Madam_, you are truly kind," she whispered, meagerly holding on to the precious garment in her hands. Glancing at the satin material, she mentally scolded herself for being so inept. "_Madam_, this dress is for you to wear if…that is, if you need one."

Sable eyebrows drew together in speculation. "Who is this from?"

"The empress requested that I bring you this—what with your personal items lost in the accident." She unfolded the gown from the crook of her arm and held it out to Christine.

Magnificent indigo satin was suspended in the cool air, the hem of it gently cascading against the marble floor. Small glass beads and tiny facets of crystal were meticulously sewn into an intricate design around the center of the bodice.

The sleeves of the gown were made of translucent silk, the same colour as the rest of the material. A small train enhanced the beauty of the gown, enriching it with a network of complementing beads and crystals.

The dress was clearly worth a small fortune, and would certainly be only available to the wealthiest. It was a petty noble's dream and a pauper's fantasy.

"It's beautiful," she found herself murmur, visibly awed by the marvelous illusion the luxurious gown cast.

"Indeed it is, _madam_."

Christine glanced at the maid. Whatever speculation the young woman might have harboured, she at least had the decency not to mention it. And for that, she was grateful.

Another knock came from the door. "Ah, that would be the water for your bath, _madam_," the maid said with acute certainty as she opened the door for the waiting maids. "Bring it in." She ushered for them to enter, making sure no water fell from the porcelain containers.

"I will see to everything you need." She moved to the wardrobe in the corner and placed the gown inside it.

As she watched the pedantic work of the maids Christine noticed how quickly they performed, their working movements almost graceful. The towels for the bath were carefully arranged near the massive porcelain tub in the next room; a tray of precious oils and expensive perfumes, each with a lovely and exotic scent, were placed on the marble floor.

Another servant entered, this time a young girl, who brought a tray of food for the famished guest. She set the tray on the vanity table, arranging it with a hint of trepidation. Her tiny hands trembled as she removed the covers from the platter.

Listless grey eyes stared at the variety of fruit, eggs, and meats, then set their gaze upon Christine. "Your husband sent this for you, _madam_," she mumbled more to herself than Christine.

"Thank you," Christine replied as she watched the girl give a sketchy curtsy before she left.

An odd sense of puzzlement consumed Christine's lucid thoughts. Her hesitance to move to the breakfast tray was reflected in the vanity's ancient mirror.

Had Erik charged a young servant to send his wife a breakfast tray? The very idea of it surprised her. Dear God, either he was very accommodating this morning, or was gently reminded her to rise earlier.

And sadly, it was most likely the latter.

Christine frowned from the thought as she pulled her errant curls away from her face with an impatient hand; the food before her was too tempting to forego, and happily she delved into the delicious entrée of fruits.

A third of a strawberry entered her mouth when she noticed the reflections of the maids, rustling out of the room in her vanity mirror. The last, gently closing the door behind her. Christine swallowed the remainder of the strawberry, savouring its tantalizing taste.

Her momentary elation, however, ended when she saw the figure of her maid approached her. "You bath has been drawn," she informed, glancing at the breakfast tray with approval. "I will assist you when you are ready, _madam_." She nodded and took her leave.

A small slice of an orange passed Christine's impatient lips and teased her expectant tongue. She smiled as the warm citrus flavour caressed her sensitive mouth. The thought of a long line of luxurious food such as this made her almost enjoy her stay here—almost.

Finishing the last slice of her orange she removed herself from the vanity, quietly making her way to the bath. She patiently waited as the maid added fragrant oil to the steaming water. "I apologize for not helping you when you arrived; I was notified that you wished to retire early without my aid."

She kindly omitted the truth of the door being locked, Christine thought; as a wave of humiliation flooded her features, chagrin replacing her mirth—realizing only too late that Erik's desire of privacy had eliminated any thought of their relationship being estranged. She did not doubt that the young woman believed the obvious when she noticed the door locked. And that uncomfortable knowledge, to her, was the highlight of her disastrous morning.

"_Madam_," the soft voice addressed, shattering her mistress' thoughts. "Shall I leave you to undress, or would you prefer my services?"

Christine gazed at the girl, her embarrassment evident. "I can undress myself, thank you. I only require that you aid me when I cannot untie the ribbons in the back of my dress." She turned her back to the girl. "They very difficult for me to reach," she added quickly.

Feeling the maid's deft fingers remove the knots from her bodice, she asked, "By the way, what is your name? I fear that I did not hear you address it."

The fingers stopped for a moment. "My apologies, _madam_," the maid deigned in a mortified whisper. "I am sorry that I did not give you a proper introduction."

"It's quite all right." Christine looked over her right shoulder and gave the maid a confident smile. "I did not introduce myself, either."

Her words seemed to have an explicit effect on the girl as she felt the bodice's tight fastenings loosen. "My name is Wilhelmina Ashtov—people call me Mina, though."

"Mina," Christine repeated. "It is a beautiful name. I have never met anyone with it before."

"It is a family name," she admitted shyly. "My grandmother's actually."

"Truly?" A sable brow rose with interest.

"Yes. My mother wished it since she prized my grandmother above the rest of her family. She said that it meant ' steadfast protector' and that it was a good name."

"And so it is," Christine agreed, settling herself into the welcoming warmth of the bath. "Mine is sadly a more inimitable name, I confess." She laughed.

Mina poured a pitcher of warm water over Christine's dark curls. "It is a name for royalty," she argued. "The empress' father is the esteemed Christian IX. Many nobles are named after the Christian saviour."

But sadly, Christine was _not_ a noble. In fact, her _esteemed_ name she was christened with only added to the stipulation of her beloved parents' hopes. The sense of propriety behind her uncharacteristic name was something derived from the strange whim of her father's mixture of faith and spiritual beliefs.

She did not deserve such an appraised acknowledgement.

Nevertheless, she smiled at Mina's compliment. "Thank you, Mina. You are very assured in your beliefs. It is a good a attribute, of course."

"And at times my assurance can lead me into trouble." Mina's dark eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. "Come along, _madam_. I believe it is time for you to dress."

Christine sighed indecisively, her impish face melded with visible reluctance. "I suppose you are right. It would be very unwise for me to dawdle whilst the empress is waiting." Her grin returned. "Besides, I would love to see the rest of the palace today."

"The palace is a very large estate," Mina said as she removed the gown from the wardrobe. Over two hundred rooms and you still cannot find your way back to the center," she chortled. "I have been with the royal family since I was in swaddling clothes and I still have difficulty finding my way around. One would believe that the palace even has secret rooms."

"Are there truly secret rooms here?" Christine's interest ignited, her resplendent eyes wide with awe.

Mina grinned. "I would not doubt it. The palace is quite old." Her hazel eyes became thoughtful, pensive. "However, I do know that other palaces, especially the one constructed by Paul I, does have secret rooms."

Noticing Christine's questioning expression, she continued. "Paul I was the son of Catherine and Peter III. After the death of his mother it was said that the newly crowned tsar became very eccentric and very suspicious of those around him. It is believed that by secret he ordered architects to design passages in the walls in case of a political assassination.

"His fears became a cold reality. The assassins found him hiding behind a fire screen. They attacked him, knocking him unconscious with a snuffbox." Her lips suppressed a smile. "The Russian people would later remark that, _'The Emperor died from an apoplectic stroke of a snuffbox in his temple.'_ Many were happy to see the tsar's harsh reign come to an end."

Christine frowned at Mina's history lesson. "Does this palace have a bloody history as well," she asked. Her tiny fingers tightened around the edge of the tub, the tension from her posed question impacted with silent deliberation.

Mina felt the tacit discord transcend between them, the instigation behind her mistress' words profound. Where had this strange question precipitated? she wondered. Why did such a small, if not trite matter, vex her mistress so? But seeing the preoccupied glance of her charge only added to the anomaly that made the lady strangely different from the others of her kind. She was abstract, opposite in the natural behaviour of one of noble descent.

But perhaps her unpretentious question was simply that—a simple, legitimate question. Mina frowned at her unjustified conclusions. Clearly, she read too deeply into things.

"A bloody history at Gatchina," Mina said absently. "There have been accidents, but nothing too violent worth recall. The Count Orlov died, and Catherine gave the estate to her son." Her dark brows drew together in silent thought.

Christine disturbed the warm water with her fingers; a myriad of ripples reverberating from her thoughtless action. "What happened to him? Did he die here?"

Mina moved a scant inch away from the tub, her hands falling away from Christine's hair. "No, he died in a palace he constructed after his mother's death." Her hands returned their ministrations on the tousled mane; the gentle, soothing assistance she gave only intensified the anxiety between them.

She poured rose-scented oil on the dark tresses, smoothing them with her expert hands. Tiny fingers wove into the silken tangles like a spider intertwining an intricate web. The white scalp beneath the dark mass was a perfect contrast to the woman's rare Scandinavian features.

Christine remained inert, an effigy of ashen marble. Cold beads of water lingered upon her flawless skin, the effect of their chilling touch unheeded. Detached, listless eyes stared—pupils agape, yet seeing nothing.

Mina's hands remained fixed in the oiled hair. Her hazel eyes considered the silent woman, discerning whether or not to break the tense silence between them. The perverse conversation and the disturbing conclusion, which followed unnerved her; the gauche silence deafening.

Feeling compelled to break the silence Mina thought of a more interesting and safer topic to discuss with her charge. However, it was her silent mistress who shattered the intangible unease between she and her maid.

"What happened to his father?" she asked calmly, then turned and looked at her with a pointed expression. "You mentioned his mother's death, but not his father's."

"He was also murdered."

A sable brow arched with interest. "Was it the same assassins? Or did he upset the Russian people as well?" A teasing note was laced within her words.

Mina's hidden tension eased. "You could draw that conclusion." She grinned. "It was said that the young tsar knew very little in ruling a country, even his aunt despaired in the fact that she would one day leave the kingdom to a simpleton.

"His wife, a German noblewoman named Catherine, also displayed her hatred for her…simple-minded husband. There was no love lost between them; and strangely, no rightful heir."

Mina nodded diligently as she viewed Christine's staggered expression. "Paul was a product from an illicit affair with a noble. Everyone knew, except for Paul himself." She paused for a moment before adding, "Of course, Catherine's husband was no better. With the exception of his sordid affairs he would also play tricks on his servants—very much like a child would.

"The country would not survive long with such an incompetent fool." Mina looked at Christine, her gaze meaningful. "The tsarina was forced to conspire against her husband before he could set his own plans into motion—irrevocably against her."

"Unfortunately, his plans failed when a group—the Orlovs—abducted him and later murdered him." Mina's eyes darkened as she spoke. "Catherine was believed to have the deed…ah…executed. Moreover, the Orlov brothers were all too happy to rid themselves of the simpleton that sat upon the throne."

"And nothing happened to them?" Christine spoke, for the first time, her surprise tangible "The authorities did not try the tsar's murderers?"

"Catherine would never allow that," Mina confirmed. "You see…" she whispered, "the tsarina was allegedly was having an affair with one of the brothers." She waved aside Christine's inaudible shock with a dismissive hand. "She would never endanger someone dear to her."

"And I suppose her husband was not dear to her at all," Christine giggled.

"Well, he was…a little on the effeminate side," Mina rejoined. "Remind me to show you a portrait of him."

Christine nodded in agreement. "I would like that, Mina." She glanced at the gown on the idle bed. "Now, I need to dress. I fear that the empress with be most displeased with my tardiness."

"As you wish, _madam_."

Mina moved to the bed, carefully unfolding the garment over the coverlet. Her deft hands smoothed the wrinkles away from the lavish gown, enhancing its wondrous beauty. Finishing her task, she removed a chemise and corset from the armoire, placing them beside of the gown.

She observed her work, then bent over to retrieve Christine's tattered tea gown from the floor. "This dress has seen much," she commented herself, and glanced at Christine. "I shall remove this from your sight, _madam_. It must bring dreadful reminders of your ordeal."

"Are you going to repair it?" Christine asked hopefully.

"I am afraid it is beyond repair, _madam_." She folded the frayed sage gown over her arms. "I shall take it away at once."

Christine's eyes widened with fear. "You mustn't!" she argued, her expression livid. "I will not discard something so dear to me so easily," she refuted, noticing Mina's horrified visage. Her heart deepened with regret. "I am sorry. I did not mean to shout at you. I just… Please, it is very dear to me." She glanced mournfully at her hands, now trembling with upset. "Someone I care deeply for gave me that dress, and it would be terrible if I disposed of it…"

She made a step toward Mina, silently pleading for her to accept her apology. "I apologize again. I just cannot let it go…"

Mina glanced at the tattered fabric and sighed. "Your husband must be a wonderful man for you to defend something so special to you." Her hands traced the delicate fabric, risking a glance at her mistress. "I have never met another person who cared so deeply for something… It's utterly shocking…" Her expression became pensive, as if retaining something she intended to say. "Forgive me, my manners have evaded me…"

Christine started at Mina's heartfelt words. It was a pity she was incorrect on her assumption.

"There is nothing to forgive," she murmured and took the gown from Mina's hands, examining it. "I would give almost anything to have this restored to its former beauty." She glanced at Mina with hope. "Is there _any_ chance for that to happen? I will somehow repay you for the trouble."

Repay her? Mina regarded Christine with a hint of disbelief. Never before had she seen a lady—a noblewoman—plead to a servant. The hurt and pain revealed within her mistress' eyes seemed so palpable, so genuine that she almost believed that _Madam_ de Maricourt's words were not a pretense.

And oddly, Mina understood her new benefactor's plight. "I will have the head royal seamstress to personally see to the refurbishing of this gown." She gingerly retrieved the garment from Christine's possessive hold. "It will be in its former state, I promise you."

A ghostlike smile returned to Christine's lips. "Thank you, Mina. It means a lot to me that you will do this. How can I repay you for your services?"

Mina shook her head. "_Madam_, I do not know how you treat servants in your country, but here it is expected of us to wait upon our betters." Her allaying look held truth. "There is no need to repay me for an expected duty."

"But you deserve more than mere _duty_," she argued. "Servants deserve appreciation from their alleged betters. I will not force you to do something as heinous as other members of the nobility desire…

"I would rather consider you more of a friend than a mere _acquaintance_ or _servant_." Christine's mollifying gaze strengthened her words, her eyes yielding to an unspoken plea. " I would prefer a friendship if that is possible…"

"But _madam—"_

"No," Christine interjected with a raised hand, smiling as she did so. "Please, call me Christine."

Sheer disbelief lingered within Mina's hazel eyes. "B—but I cannot do that, _madam,_" she stuttered, objecting to Christine's unconventional request. "It is not done…"

Sable brows drew together in disagreement. "You go against _my_—your mistress'—wishes?" she teased. "Come now. Surely you would not argue with your…ahem…betters. _That_ is simply not done," she said with mock reprimand.

Mina gazed at her, mystified. Her voice was vacant of speech as Christine mockingly chastised her, throwing all propriety to the wind. She felt as if she could not breathe. No one, in her memory, had ever cast aside Society's strict rules. The boundary between master and servant was a prominent one. And somehow, by a strange a twist of fate, she had the pleasure of meeting a noble opposing that impenetrable periphery. A smile, laced with willing defeat, traced her lips. "All right, _Christine_. I shall abide by your rules." She grinned, despite herself. "You are very…unorthodox in the ways of society."

Christine did not conceal her delight. "I should hope so. Why would I desire to be like everybody else? Many of the elite are cruel and debased in their beliefs. I would hate to mould myself in their _justified_ ways of decency." She shook her head in disdain. "I despise those who believe they are better than others. Perhaps that is why you deem them as your betters," she mused distantly.

Mina was compelled to comment, but could not find the words to pose her thoughts. The conviction behind Christine's belief was surprising, and strangely sincere. She could find a friendship with this odd yet interesting woman.

Smiling to herself the young maidservant removed the gown from its resting place. Holding it out with infinite care she nodded to Christine. "Come, _ma­—_Christine, the empress is not one to wait too long upon a person. Even if he or she is one of her guests…"

Christine returned Mina's timid smile, overjoyed to have a semblance of normality return to her chaotic life.

…

_"Mon Dieu…"_ Christine murmured faintly as she descended into the palace's opulent Gothic Corridor.

The hall seemed to stretch into the uttermost reaches of eternity. With its elongated size and appearance the corridor held the impression of being infinite, unbound by the harsh constrictions of reality. Christine's gown moved like a dark shadow in the silent hall, the layers of satin rustling with each passing step.

Rows of stained-glass windows, ancient oil paintings, and ivory-coloured arches accentuated the infamous hall, its sense of repetition an artist's ideal _magnum opus._ The subtle beauty behind the military façade was truly impressive.

Mina made light comments about the unique architecture, prattling on about its legendary creator. "…And the tsar Nicholas I, had this part of the palace commissioned by the architect, Kuzmin." She gestured to the ivory crown molding. "It complemented his apartments with great detail, which his son would later inherit..."

Christine perceived a hint of discontent in Mina's voice. From the maid's dismal account Alexander's father met a terrible end. Perhaps the members of his family were not the only ones to feel such a shattering blow from his loss. Empathy replaced her confusion as Mina's soft words drifted into the massive hall.

However, her understanding remained unsaid as Mina led her from the corridor to another luxurious portion of the palace. Consequentially she followed without word or thought; her mind vacant of legitimate cogitations, the deep intake of grandeur obliterating all rational thought.

The young chambermaid stopped as she nodded genially to Christine. Her tiny hand fell against the ivory door, a light knock reverberating from her tacit indication. "Be ready," Mina whispered.

Christine waited patiently until another chambermaid—this one more aged and broad in appearance—opened the door. Marie's exultant voice greeted Christine. "I am pleased to see you, my dear." Her dark eyes glittered with sincere appeasement. "The dress becomes you. It does well with your unique colouring."

Christine blushed, inclining her head with subtle modesty. "Thank you, your highness."

Marie glanced at the silent maids. With a regal wave of her hand she dismissed them to their other duties. Christine watched Mina and the other maid leave without question, their retreat formal, dignified.

The young empress sighed as the door closed behind them. A minute, fleeting sense of fatigue embellished her aristocratic appearance, the illusion of regality carelessly slipping away. Christine watched the petite woman approach her with what could be considered as an open invitation to speak.

But in spite of this open display of warmth, Christine could not find the words to begin such an elaborate conversation. With royalty, one could never estimate the outcome of beginning a polite exchange, or even the perfect choice of words to placate and appease one of high status.

And so she remained silent, her remaining sense of etiquette briefly eluded her. She felt the imminent dread of her growing silence—her mind engaged with cluttered ramblings and shattered salutations that brewed inside of it. Only one clear, concise thought penetrated the nebulous fog of absurdity: One mistake, she realized, and the empress would know of her deception.

And Erik would be irate.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, silently praying that she did not make a fool of herself. And yet, the words died upon her tongue when she heard the light, pleasing laugh of the empress. "You seem nervous, my dear," she said soothingly. "Please, do not be so in my presence. When we are behind closed doors formality is gently set aside."

Marie's gentle words placed a calming effect on Christine. The compassionate tone she employed in her voice gave her the appearance of a benevolent and understanding mother. The maternal glow surrounding her was enhanced by the sunlight, which beamed relentlessly through the windows.

It was then she noticed the slight swell of the empress' abdomen. The poor light in the corridor the previous night had immaculately concealed her impending motherhood. There was little doubt that everyone in the palace knew of the empress' condition, but the way she tried to conceal it proved that rest of the world remained ignorant.

"I see you've noticed," Marie murmured softly, her right hand tracing over the light swell. Noticing Christine's innate flush, she continued. "Not many know or even detect it. However, I suppose I shall surprise everyone soon enough."

"You must enjoy being a mother." Christine glanced at Marie, her expression thoughtful.

Marie nodded. "It is a challenge, but one well met with enjoyment." She smiled, her hands smoothing the rustled black satin at her waist. "Alexander believes it will be another boy. However, I want it to be a girl. My Xenia is outnumbered by her brothers." Her gentle laugh held a slight hint of melancholy.

Clear understanding suffused the prima donna's eyes. "It must be difficult for her," she agreed reluctantly. Christine regarded Marie with a hint of regret. "I remember wanting brothers and sisters—even if they were not all that I had hoped for."

"You were an only child?"

Christine inclined her head, affirming the tsarina's assertion. "Yes, my mother died before having any more children. I was only six at the time."

"It must have been difficult to lose your mother at such a young age," Marie confirmed. "I would not know what to do if I lost my mother and did not have the solace a brother or sister insure." She paused for a moment, her pensive deliberation drawing a dispiriting effect on her guest. Marie noticed the awkward disquiet between, and decided to break it. "And what of your father, my dear? Surely it was devastating for him as well."

Christine paled at Marie's inquiry. She remained silent as an irredeemable sadness infused her eyes, the years of remorse and sorrow filling her sight with newfound images of a life long since passed. She turned to Marie, her expression lucid. "My father loved my mother deeply," she began, her doleful voice filled with profound conviction. "He decided to vacate our home in Sweden and set up residence in Paris.

"We lived comfortably in our home for many years," she added, secretly omitting certain, vital details. "However, his health failed him, and eventually he passed away." Christine fought back the inevitable tears, ready to brandish the falsehood Erik had coldly advised.

Strangely the empress did not further question Christine's personal life as she had anticipated. Instead, she clasped Christine's left hand, encouraging her to hear her placating words. "To face such adversity and overcome it is truly worth renown," she said thoughtfully. "I believe not many could set such an example for others to follow." She gestured to a seat near the window. "Come, let us sit down and talk. Perhaps you can tell of the latest news in Paris? It has been quite some time since I last visited."

Marie's engaging smile held an impish plea, leaving Christine to concede and take a seat beside of her. "Now, tell me of the latest gossip, my dear. Surely something has caught the eye of Paris."

Christine blushed, her eyes falling to the cradled hands on her lap. Nervously, she murmured, "I know that a…_telephone_ was at the Paris Electrical Exhibition in December." Her dark brows creased together in clear perplexity. "It was used at the Grand Opéra, sending music through it to another part of the theatre."

"Yes, I heard that _Monsieur _Ader's experiments were a success. Strange how an American inventor could influence others to use such odd devices." Marie shook her head. "Very soon penning letters will be obsolete to this new development in machinery." The empress gave a dismissive sigh. "But enough of that. Surely something else has been the latest on-dit."

It was apparent that the empress desired to be enlightened of the idle talk the higher classes were well versed in. It was a pity most of the rumours Christine knew were related to the Opéra; and more importantly, to her. The possibility of revealing the truth was not one she was willing to chance.

However, Erik's deceptive story of their marriage eased her discomfort. The fabricated romance wove an intricate web of deceitful images within her mind: Their inevitable meeting, followed by a lover's idyll, which melded into the sacred vows of marriage that bound one to the other for eternity. Erik would never allow death to part them; their souls were forever bound.

"My dear, are you all right?"

Marie's concerned stare shattered her reverie. Christine's eyes widened as their startled gaze fell upon the empress. "Yes," she muttered. "I seemed to have…"

"Have wandering thoughts?" Marie supplied for her, her amusement evident. "It's very common with my husband as well. He has the tendency to ponder on all else except for what he should be concentrating on." She placed a comforting hand on Christine's. "But I would not have him any other way. Do not be embarrassed; we are all inattentive at times."

"Thank you, your highness," Christine whispered, her meek expression reminiscent of a pious nun.

"In private, I would prefer that you call me Marie, as I shall call you Christine." Marie's grip tightened, her meaning leaving no misunderstanding. "Formality commands only so much before it becomes too tedious for one's own liking. I would wish for all of my guests to see that…

"And as such," she continued, "I will personally give you a tour of the palace." Christine's eyes widened, and Marie smiled. "Who better to show off Gatchina's beautiful history than the tsarina herself?" She stood, gesturing for Christine to rise. "Come now, we will begin with this level. I will show you around until it is time dress for the evening meal." At her guest's hesitation she added, "That is if you do not mind to join us this evening?"

Marie's expectant query hung in the static air, its light tone pealing into the outer depths of Christine's hidden unease. To refuse the empress a second time would be most unwise, she thought. Besides, she liked the empress; her affable disposition and easy chatter were most welcoming during this dark period in her life. Nodding her head in affirmation, she said, "Of course I will attend."

The empress' smile widened. "I was hoping that you would accept. Many of my other guests have been a little over-anxious to see you and your husband. Apparently, my dear, your story of survival has infested the court's circles. Everyone has at least heard of how you managed to live through such a tragedy."

Christine stared at Marie, her dumbfounded expression replacing her hesitation. "Other guests will be there?"

"Of course. It has been strenuous on my part to deny many who have asked to visit the palace, at this time." Her obsidian eyes darkened with mischief. "One prince in particular did not appreciate my most humble rejection. I believe he regretted that he did not accept my invitation when offered. Such a pity that after the Season has ended that many desire to leave and enjoy their homes in other lands. I suppose it is for the warmer climate," she mused. "But come, let us speak of the other, more interesting things like how you met your husband."

"My husband?" Christine blanched at her meaningless question. "I—we met at the Opéra Garnier," she stumbled over her words. She paused for a moment, forcing herself to remember how she presumably met him, and later married him. Her eyes darkened from the thought as a wave of confidence compelled her to speak. "It was raining and the Opéra had just played its last performance for the evening. People were dispersing from the main hall, leaving as the street lamps were being lit.

"I remember watching them leave, walking down the marble steps as they spoke of the production's highly-acclaimed diva." A faint smile touched her lips, her eyes darkly embellished with an unspoken emotion. "It was then I met Erik. The moment I heard his voice I believed that I had heard an angel from Heaven. It was then I realized that no man could ever enthuse me in such a way…I now believe that I cared for him from that moment on."

Marie glanced at her questionably, her dark eyes scrutinizing every inch of Christine's person.

It looked as if she would say something in objection to her guest's bland statement.

But her derisive frown faded, a cautious smile replacing it. "Your husband must be very prodigious to inspire such devotion and love from a woman. He must truly love you," she said, the warmth in her voice comforting.

Christine's smile disappeared as the transitory warmth Marie offered quickly melded into a cold blanket of certainty: Erik did not love her; he despised her. Her beautiful story was nothing more than a vicious lie, used to mislead those who would harm her if the truth were revealed.

But her deceitful mask remained in tact. Christine nodded as a wan smile etched her porcelain lips. "He has always shown me kindness, and I doubt that I could ever part from his side."

"An extraordinary husband," Marie commented blithely. "One, I would think, that would do well at court." She smiled warmly. "My Sasha speaks highly of your husband. It will be a pleasure to introduce you to everyone, for all are in anticipation of meeting you."

Christine shook her head in passive disbelief. "I hope so." A nervous laugh escaped her.

"They will," Marie reassured her, her regal gait moving gracefully down the hall. "I do so believe that your visit will be the highlight of this year. Wait and see." She turned to face Christine, her sharp eyes consumed with intangible certainty. "And, my dear, my opinion is _never_ wrong."

The young prima donna could only gape at the fragile, diminutive woman. The cold certainty behind the empress' words added to the tidal wave of fears that crashed against the rocky coast of her mind.

And thus she remained in a transient state of vexed uncertainty, the rest of the day wasted on her impulsive fears newly addressed by the empress. It was difficult to convince a few of the life she and Erik had falsely constructed. But to deceive a throng of well educated and wellborn nobles would prove to be a daunting task. She could only pray that Erik would remain by her side during the duration of their elaborate fabrication. And somehow, deep inside of herself she knew that he would not disappoint her.

Hours passed fleetingly like white sand through an hourglass as Marie led Christine through the main gallery. The warming light of the sunset crested into the black hills in the dense horizon. Its penetrating radiance poured in through the gothic windows, painting the walls with fiery orange light. Christine squinted against the sheer luster of it is ethereal effect. All day she felt a symbiotic comfort, her worries and secret concerns washed away with the fading sunlight.

Marie, in all of her kindness, kept her away from the inquisitive eyes and furtive glances that lingered within the shadows. Servant and courtier alike watched in avid fascination as the empress led the nameless object of their gossip through the illustrious halls of the palace, never once allowing them a chance to penetrate the comfortable discourse between them.

Christine was relieved of the obligation of looking over her shoulder. With the motherly protection of the tsarina she was temporarily shielded from the thousand, unknown probing stares. A wraithlike smile veiled itself over her lips as she recalled Marie's mirth-ridden words:

_'Oh, the rest of Society will meet the illustrious couple of their exaggerated gossip, all in good in time.'_ Her obsidian eyes bore into Christine, her pointed gaze unabashed by her shrewd statement. _'I do not wish to share _you_ with _them_ just yet.'_ Her childlike grin widened. _'I am being childish, I realize. However, an empress is required to have her way_, non? _And besides, impatience and the growing curiosity of the human mind can bring about one's downfall. They will have to wait.'_

The pleasant company between empress and commoner abruptly ended when the amiable air between them was shattered by the brusque, masculine greeting of the tsar. Alexander hailed his wife with a jovial salutation. "Minnie." He raised a questioning brow. "I understand that you gave our guest a pleasant tour of our home?"

"Of course," Marie agreed lightly.

Alexander nodded, his pleasure visible within his blue eyes.

The affable silence between them lingered for a moment, then dissipated into a cloud of voluminous smoke. Marie glanced at Christine, her eyes unreadable. The empress knew her guest felt ill at ease with the impending banquet. However, the guileless bravado the young woman displayed made her admirable on Marie's part. She truly liked this timid creature. So unlike the other tainted, highborn ladies she had unfortunately had the pleasure of being introduced to—this low, bourgeoisie was a far cry from the repulsion she felt for the others.

Her idea of shielding Christine from the probing stares of the other courtiers was not out of pity, but concern.

And although she made a light jest out of her selfish reasons, the real concern remained, for she did not wish to see this seemingly innocent girl fall into the same caste as the others. Oddly, she also inwardly praised her guest's choice in a companion. The cold, insidious glare of Christine's husband not only harboured a dark, unknown intent, but one also of protection. Marie realized that he would shield his lovely wife from the licentious stares of others. Even now, she felt his penetrating gaze upon the woman beside of her. Yes, she thought, this couple would survive the evils of the Russian court.

A bell within the distance chimed the approaching hour of seven, its ringing peals a forewarning of what was to come. Marie set her thoughts aside as she gave Christine a considerable glance. "It is to change for dinner." She placed a gentle hand on Christine's forearm. "I had your maid set out your gown," she whispered. "It will be a pleasure having you at my table this evening." Relinquishing her hold, Marie turned to her husband, entreating him to leave with her with a silent nod.

The empress received a reserved sigh from her husband as she ushered him down the hall. She looked over her shoulder, giving Christine an encouraging smile. The unspoken words drifted between them: Do not fear for what is to come.

Christine watched the tsar and his wife disappear into the obscurely lit corridor, a faint sigh of discontent escaping her. She dreaded the outcome the evening would hold. Inwardly, she wished to remain in the safe confines of her room, blissfully unaware of the world outside its hallowed shelter. But her aspirations would not come to pass as she felt the evocative presence of the man before her.

Her eyes gazed over the dark evening attire, the heavy cloak masking his nimble frame; the well tailored suit under it a fine shade of ebony, its waistcoat embroidered with a silken design of black roses. A white shirt, starched and pressed, contrasted his morose ensemble—the white mask adding to his imposing visage. No living man could wear such a bleak and desolate costume without being considered a corpse ready for burial. However, Erik managed to overcome that ideology and infuse a dark and almost hidden appreciation for his abstract wardrobe.

Christine appreciated the contrast to normality.

The cold disquiet permeated between them: both unmoving from their set position. Their gazes locked, and for a brief moment they deviated away from their secure position. Christine felt the unnatural glow of his eyes sear her flesh. And strangely, she reveled in it.

_Christine… _He seemed to say without voicing his thoughts.

Her strange happiness intensified when he made the first move, the elegant grace of extending his hand almost made her resolve shatter. His gloved hand waited patiently for her acceptance, the expectation within his tawny eyes almost tangible. Christine realized that he was waiting for her, waiting to see if she would pass this simple test of trust.

The hesitation melted away as her eyes were immersed with an unknown, indiscernible passion that her childlike mind could not even begin to comprehend. The chilling sensations that stirred within her the moment her hand touched his made Christine almost cry with unprecedented elation. _Everything_, she realized, would be all right.

The fears, the reservations, and the constant worry she harboured deep within herself evaporated, leaving her to stand profoundly in her newly erected convictions. And somehow she knew that at the center of this newfound confidence Erik was there, dispelling her worry.

The mental projection of him was comforting. And although his physical self despised her she still felt the need to welcome this foreign confidence. Her hand tightened in his as her eyes darkened with a new appreciation: Erik would somehow find a way to escape this elaborate prison.

"Erik?" she whispered.

"Come, Christine," his hauntingly, all-too-familiar voice beckoned to her, the coldness within it a chilling warning. "It is time."

…

**Author's Note: First off, I would like to apologise for taking so long with this chapter. I understand that it has been over four months since I have last posted. College and others things such as my family have taken up a lot of my time. However, I will try to post more frequently. I never realized this semester would be so taxing on my part. I do hope this long chapter makes up for my absence! **

**I do hope, however, that this chapter was not too tedious. I felt as if I was writing a history lesson within it, but additionally one of interest. The assassinations, Catherine's lovers, etc. _did_ actually happen. I found it interesting for Christine to learn about the decadence and debauchery that even occurred in the elite upper classes. **

**A few things about this chapter that I believe I need to mention: I know the ending was a little different, and could almost be considered abstract from the angst-ridden chapters that I write. I just wanted to lighten one segment of the story! Also, Christine is very fickle. I did not expect to write her momentary lapse of sanity so soon. However, I believe it fit in nicely. I always find her to be leaning toward the other end of rationality. I believe the bedroom scene might have tipped the scales a bit…(Muses to herself.)**

**And also, I know that Erik was hardly seen in this chapter. But I promise that everyone will see more of him. I just had to write this huge exposition on Christine's part. I felt the introduction of Marie and Christine's relationship was important to address in this chapter. It is virtually the equivalent to the relationship between Erik and Alexander. **

**I believe that is all I need to address about this chapter. I should be able to post the next one after finals. Christmas Break is truly a godsend! **

**Oh, and a note about my others stories. I've noticed that a few have asked about the continuance to my other work '_Traitor of Dreams,'_ and I have to say that I have not completely abandoned it. I realize that I have not worked on it in close to a year. College and this _terrible_ Phantom obsession have clearly gotten into the way! I shall return to my other fixations, I promise. I just cannot abandon this story right now… I honestly believe I will suffer under the Punjab lasso if I do! (Laughs.) **

**And now, I wish to thank everyone for their incredible reviews on my last chapter. I never realized I would have so many. Also, I wish to thank Lady Soleil for recommending my story to others on the Phantom Phans posting board! I feel very honoured for such an acknowledgement! Thank you, everyone, again for your wonderful reviews. I truly appreciate them!**


	8. Chapter Seven: A Bitter Revelation

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Seven.

The consistency of time flowed and ebbed against the rocky shores of inevitability. With each passing second the shadow upon her life drew nigh. Christine felt another fragment of her soul fall from her poorly constructed composure. She felt dismal, dejected by what was to come.

It was not the initial fear of her fate, but the sheer uncertainty which clouded it. She was terrified by the prospect of meeting a multitude of strangers that could possibly see through her façade and condemn her for it, and although she confided in Erik, she was still frightened.

In truth, she had always been in the presence of the aristocracy. The Opéra had introduced her to the elite class, giving her a view of their lives from the other side. She did not associate with the ladies; it was strictly forbidden. Gentlemen, on the other hand, frequented the dressing rooms of the dancers. Even La Carlotta received quite a few besotted admirers.

She frowned at the thought. Would men also be the same, here? Dear God, she knew of their unsavoury advances, their interests transcending far beyond the stage. Many young girls would bemoan their tragic love affairs to those who would listen, or at least shower them with comforting, false words. And secretly, she was grateful that no man troubled himself with artificial proclamations of love on her part.

But of course she was cruelly placed in a dangerous triangle of true love and utter possession, where she, the hapless victim had to choose; her fate decided by her own hand.

And it was a pity the latter choice dominated all sense and reason, for it was utter madness which drove her actions now, leading her to this crucial juncture.

Christine's body remained inert, its statuesque beauty secreting her conflicted thoughts. She barely felt the deft hands of Mina as she fastened the final pearl button on the gown.

"Look, _madam_," Mina instructed as she skillfully turned Christine to face the vanity mirror. "You are truly beautiful. I believe the court will be very impressed." Her hazel eyes beamed with delight.

Christine stared into the mirror. Hollow eyes reflected their imposing gaze; the dark indigo shade around the pupils intensified by their grave appearance. Her heart-shaped face, which was vacant of colour, added to the wraithlike beauty that Mina artfully created. The girl's craft in turning a bland face into one of devastating beauty was unrivaled by even the best facial artists in Paris.

The ashen features she maintained were natural, untainted by the artificial rouge that bronzed one's features. Her lips were unpainted, displaying their true shade of pale red. And despite her protests of placing her hair in a simple, elegant chignon, the dark mass was stacked strategically upon her head, the ebony curls glossy in the pale lamplight. White pearl-handled pins adorned the silken tresses, contrasting the black strands with ivory beads of purity.

Doubt penetrated the beautiful façade, making sable brows purse together with unladylike grace. Christine inwardly balked at the false reflection, inherently despising it. She felt wretched; a replica of whom she truly was. She could no longer see the plain, confused girl that she knew so well. In her place was this lovely refined creature that obtained beauty but had no soul.

A trembling hand moved to the bare column of her throat, a few loose curls cascading against it. A single pearl fell from a golden cord that encircled her neck, its tear-shaped essence cresting below her collarbone. Her hand moved to a borrowed earring, which complemented the simple necklace. She caressed the calcified jewel with absent attention, her eyes focused upon the mirror's reflection.

Mina had firmly insisted it was a gift from the empress, made for her to wear this night. Christine was vaguely surprised that the empress knew her measurements, for the gown fit her perfectly. Mina merely shook her head, a small, furtive smile playing upon her lips.

Christine decided not to question the girl. The simple joy behind having a new gown—one of such beauty and elegance—that made all fashionable gowns in Paris dim in comparison to it almost made her weep with sincere appreciation. And despite feeling like a porcelain doll she felt beautiful, all the same.

The gown itself bestowed its own sense of brilliance. Heavy fabric, adorned in precious ivory, cascaded in a loose semi-transparent band of satin. Her shoulders were bared for the world to see, the sleeves beginning below the curved ends of porcelain flesh. The sleeves were cut to reveal a pair of delicate arms, the edges embroidered with seed pearls and faceted golden topaz. Golden thread accentuated the precious beads, embellishing the subtle appeal of the gown.

Its bodice also carried the same luxurious design; the floral outline an intricate tapestry of wealth and splendour. The rest of the gown followed in a fine line of ivory satin. Layers of petticoats lengthened the gown's lower half, whereas its whalebone corset set the hourglass shape that all women tried to attain. A thin chemise only added to the modesty of the gown.

Christine felt as if she could not breathe.

"Are the laces too tight, _madam_?"

"I will be all right," Christine murmured weakly. "Pain always comes with beauty."

Mina nodded. "Indeed it does," she agreed, her expression turning grim. "Many women endure the pain and have fainting spells in order to be current with the latest fashion. It pains me to see them suffer so unnecessarily." She bit her lip in consternation, her gaze pensive. "It must be painful to have a row of whalebones clenched against your ribs."

Christine closed her eyes and inclined her head, submitting to Mina's words. "I cannot agree more, Mina. It _is_ painful, and I would love to see the creator of them wearing one without respite. I despise corsets," she said vehemently. "They are a true prison."

"Prison or not, they are unfortunately required for this gown." Mina bade Christine to remain in place, her hands smoothing away the wrinkles from the elegant gown. "You will be envied by many tonight," she assured her with a smile. "And I would not doubt that your husband will have to threaten any man who approaches you."

A small frown replaced the gentle smile Christine bore. "Do you believe that?" A sable brow arched with concern. "Will they—"

"I am merely jesting, my lady," Mina reassured her. "Trust me; men know their place in public, especially when a lady's husband is present. They will not trouble you."

Although she did not speak, Christine's relief was present in an inaudible sigh. Mina inwardly scolded herself as she adjusted the gown's bell-shaped sleeves. Her jest had clearly upset her mistress. But why? she wondered. Could this young woman possibly fear the prospect of other men offering secret liaisons behind her husband's back? Somehow, Mina doubted that Christine would ever be so unfaithful.

No. The woman before her did not have lascivious thoughts or even concern herself with ardent lovers that spoke false words of passion. No, her concern lay with the security of her husband.

Mina clearly recalled the night they arrived at the palace. With the door locked, she realized that they desired privacy; privacy which came with sincere words of love and adoration. She did not need to listen to their conversation; the truth remained with the locked door.

However, the man that had enraptured her mistress wore a mask. Curious, she thought, as she finished her mundane task of perfecting the gown's sleeves.

Moving away from Christine, she secretly admired her work. The young woman almost seemed much too young to be a wife, but too old to be a mindless child. Christine was the portrait of innocence, her nascent beauty the interminable transformation from child to woman.

Christine's fragile figure was trapped in a still frame, its image undimmed by Time's eternal flow. And in Mina's mind she knew that Christine's ethereal appearance would never alter, never fade with the passage of time. She would remain fixed, forever trapped in the body of a girl cresting upon womanhood. And strangely, Christine's distant husband was the direct opposite.

It was odd to understand why her mistress would choose a man at least twenty years her senior. But it was not uncommon for a lady of gentle breeding to choose a man for his wealth and place in society than for his appearance or age. Many young girls were fobbed off on old lecherous lords that delighted themselves in cruel, almost sadistic means of sexual pleasure—the girls ironically secured in their role to obey them, and at the very least bear an heir for the title.

Russia was not unlike any other country when it came to marriage. Love was a trite fantasy, contrived by young, foolish girls that mindlessly believed in before the truth fell upon them, shattering their dreams. Many unfortunately became bitter after the marriage night, never able to recover from their loss—their virginity, dreams, and aspirations lost by the next dawn. And it was that dawn with the sun and its harsh red beams that changed the course of their lives forever: No more dreams, no more hopes, or desires for a beautiful future that would never come to pass.

And deep inside Mina hated to see the same fate befall her strange mistress. The lady wanted a friend, one she could confide in. Her odd proclamation of a friendship had honestly caught Mina off guard, but the naïve sincerity within Christine's eyes had made her falter. And despite the breach of protocol between master and servant Mina would meet this young, interesting woman half way. And unlike the other traitorous ladies at court, her mistress could at least trust her not to betray her. _Madam_ de Maricourt's innocence was too precious, too rare to be wasted on the lowly animals of the Russian court.

Discarding her altruistic delusions Mina moved to the armoire, withdrawing a sheer ivory shawl. She carefully unfolded its fragile beaded exterior, gently linking it around Christine's arms. "And now you are ready," she murmured, a deep sense of pride within her soft voice.

Christine stared at the sheer gossamer shawl, her eyes riveting upon its ancient fabric. "It's beautiful." She heard herself say.

"It once belonged to the Empress Maria, our tsar's mother." Mina straightened the wrinkled edges of the shawl. "It was a gift from her husband after their engagement," she added. "The empress believed it would complement your gown."

"And it does." Christine could only agree as she touched a beaded silver rose. "I've never seen anything like it before…it's lovely."

Mina grinned impishly. "You will astonish everyone; trust me. I believe your husband may even be surprised at how beautiful you truly are."

Christine turned at Mina's words, her startled gaze falling upon her maid. "Erik?" she questioned timidly, her azure eyes darkening with mute concern.

"Yes," Mina answered calmly. "I am sure he will appreciate the beauty of his wife, what loving husband would not?" she chortled, trying to placate her anxious mistress.

After a moment's timorous deliberation Christine finally spoke. "I suppose you are right, Mina," she admitted sheepishly, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. "I believe I am a little nervous tonight."

Seeing the timidity in Christine's blanched face, Mina placed a comforting hand on her forearm. "You will be fine," she assured her. "The empress would never allow anything of remote disgrace to taint her household. Do not fear tonight, my lady. Everything will be fine. You will see," Mina said as she released Christine's arm.

Reluctant dismay pulled at Christine's dark brows. She looked at the maid, her eyes troubled. "Mina, how can you be so sure?" she asked worriedly, her voice unconvinced.

Mina gave her a meaningful smile. "Because your—"

"_Mademoiselle_, I wish to speak to my wife alone for a moment."

Both women turned to meet the face of the callous voice that had interrupted them. Christine's heart raced madly within her chest when her eyes fell upon the staid figure of Erik, whilst Mina inclined her head in gentle acknowledgement.

"_Monsieur_," Mina murmured reverently.

"_Mademoiselle,_" Erik returned regally, "if you would please excuse us?"

"Certainly." The maid inclined her head once more, and then smiled at Christine as she took her leave.

Watching Mina leave Christine inwardly tensed, frightened of what Erik would say. She watched him as he closed the door, locking it, the bolt sliding securely in its catch. Tense seconds followed his mundane action until he turned away from the door, his gaze meeting hers.

Golden eyes looked at her, their diligent expression a true anomaly. Christine felt a strange sense of delight coursed through her, the familiar presence of her former mentour compelled her to bridge the cavernous gap between them. She wanted to speak to him, have him reassure her and help her cast aside her doubts. But her courage waned, as she cast her eyes shamefully to the floor.

Erik gloated at her loss of composure. The ignorant beauty before him demurred at a hideous monster; the equanimity within her posture broken by his presence. Perversely, he crossed the spacious void, only inches away from her intimidated side.

The object of his revenge reluctantly tilted her eyes from the floor, quietly meeting his. "Erik," she murmured softly, unwillingly.

"Christine…" A hand moved to touch hers, but stopped at the slightest contact between them.

Christine glanced at the offered hand, and looked once more at his masked visage. A faint smiled assuaged her frown as she accepted it.

A tensed silence lingered between them, their hands clasped in utter madness. Erik felt the warmth permeate from Christine's ungloved hand. The unwelcome sensation distressed the cold dead flesh underneath it. Remote surprise inundated him, inducing him to hold on to her unwanted touch.

He stared at her, his eyes grievously captivated by her unearthly beauty. Had only months passed and not years when he had first met her? She looked like a lost child, he recalled. The young progeny of Daaé was nothing more but an insignificant girl who could not find her voice amongst a myriad of others. He remembered hearing her voice, for the first time; the mere of sight of her coercing him to give in and make her one of his living projects.

The brief passage of time had utterly changed the shy girl into a brilliant singer. And now, here she was: no longer a child, no longer a singer, but a woman posing to be his wife. The silent, diminutive beauty before him was the false representation of a woman he once envisioned within his shattered mind—the vision before him brought to life. The glory of Christine Daaé-de Maricourt was a living, breathing reality.

And he utterly loathed the sight of her.

Her ivory dress suited the role of a virgin being let to a pagan sacrifice. White pearls only added to her fallacious guise. The empress had chosen well when she wanted the rest of her guests to believe that her newest arrival was innocent of all that was considered evil. Christine's diabolical beauty was like a hypnotic poison that would seep and fester into the hearts of those who instantly fell under her charm. And paradoxically, his grotesque features complemented her well.

The Russian courtiers would balk at the inanity behind their overstated rumours. He and Christine would live in infamy, their memory inexorably burned into the minds of those who were infected by their presence.

He smiled at the prospect. His life was once again filled with an indefinite purpose. He would endure, reveling in this new delight. With Christine by his side he felt an assurance that had never emerged until this fatal moment.

"Are you nervous, my child?" his alluring voice derided.

Fearfully, she looked into his luminous eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

Erik stroked her hand with his thumb, the gloved surface subtly sending silent waves of trepidation through her. "What do you fear, Christine?"

"I…" She hesitated a moment, her mouth agape with unspoken words of despair. Then her resolve strengthened, giving her the minute courage to finish. "I fear them—the court. I am terrified that they will see and…"

"See what?" he prompted.

"They will see me, for what I truly am…" her reply a despondent whisper. "They will see beyond the gown and fine jewelry, their eyes focused upon an impoverished violinist's daughter. And they will condemn me for it," she muttered wretchedly. "I never wanted to do this. I only wish to leave before it is too late…"

Erik considered her plea, her angelic face suspended in the darkness, its ashen splendour radiant in the shadows. Her pale lips were slightly opened, revealing her innate distress. And to his personal dismay his hand tightened around hers, silently reassuring her of her childish fears.

"Your servant seems to know much of the world. You should heed the advice of those who are wise, my dear," he chided her, referring to Mina's encouraging words.

"You heard her?" Christine's eyes questioned his. Seeing the bland affirmation in his porcelain expression, she asked, "How long were you there? How long had you been watching us?"

"Long enough, my child," his gentle words softly admonished her. "Long enough to see the distrust festering within you." His eyes compelled her to look at him, forcing her not to turn away from him. "You fear too much, Christine. Do you not trust me?" His question a heated whisper. Erik's other hand moved to her chin, capturing it in its deadened fingers. "Do you place so little faith in me that you must doubt me at every turn? Tell me, my dear."

Christine tried to look away, but his captive hand held her in place. "I do not doubt you, Erik," she said with palpable sorrow. "…I doubt myself."

She felt the slight release of his hand, her chin still tingling where his fingers had been. Her troubled eyes gazed deeply into his, seeing their tawny depths merge and fuse with a myriad of unnamable emotions that burned and faded out of existence. She had surprised him with her answer, her confession unexpected. Her hand reached out to his face; then stopped, suspending itself between them. "Erik," she pleaded for him to take it, accept it.

Inner turmoil and calculative indecision burned brilliantly within his eyes, his hesitation a sign that he would not accept her token of blind trust—would never accept her. Disenchanted by his unmoved action Christine slowly withdrew her hand, shying away from the vacancy of his craved touch.

And yet, as she tried to move away, she felt the sudden sensation of another hand, the velvety leather surrounding hers, enticing her to look at its master. "Christine," he uttered when she tried to conceal her sudden flush of colour. "Do not turn away from me. I thought we had established that you would not do so," his resonant voice tantalized her.

"I know," she replied demurely.

A leather finger tilted her inclined chin, swaying her to look at him. His light caress infused her with hidden elation. How could this man arouse such wonder, such awe-inspiring fear yet at the same time, inflict pain upon her? Why did she now revel in his condemning touch instead of flinching from it? Was it because she trusted in him, despite her own doubts? She did not know.

"Christine, it is time." Erik's quiet words shattered her thoughts. "The tsar will be waiting."

Christine could only nod as she walked blindly by his side, her hand still clasped in his.

…

The Marble Dining Room, which was generally used only for private dinners of the royal family, was transformed into a magnanimous banquet hall that would rival the infamous dinner parties of the Sun King. Rows of chairs were placed parallel to each other, a lavish wooden table separating them. Chandeliers embellished the room with crystal radiance; tiled floors were swathed in an upsurge of dancing light. The room was covered in a mass of expensive clothing and jewelry, the countless bodies merging into a massive bulk of flesh and foreign lace.

Alexander did not hesitate to greet his guests when a valet announced their arrival. His blue eyes lightened with a mixture of excitement and subtle expectation. He nodded to Erik and gave Christine a rare smile.

"Ah, _Monsieur_ and _Madam_ de Maricourt. Welcome," he said in a booming voice that only intensified in the spacious hall.

A thousand eyes turned in the direction of the tsar, having their first view of the enigmatic couple. Voices streamed through the loud discourse, replete with awed anticipation. The thrilled chant of disbelief coursed through the gaudy multitude of spectators, each watching with avid eagerness. Assumptions of the mysterious circumstances that had brought the strange pair were immediately resurrected by a new enthrallment: the oddity between husband and wife was unprecedented, uncommon by the traditional way of convention set by society. And yet, those eager to meet them moved to set up introductions with the tsar, their bodies being inexorably pulled by their own damning curiosity—the perverse fascination behind it almost welcomed.

The first of these fervent guests was Alasdair Winterbourne, the seventh earl of Blackmoore Hall and his wife Isabel de Beaumont. The English lord gave the couple an obsequious bow as his wife humbly curtsied. "It is a pleasure, _monsieur_," the earl said amiably as he offered his hand to Erik in a congenial sign of friendship. He smiled when his offer was hesitantly accepted.

Christine watched Erik and the earl exchange common pleasantries. The welcoming expression of the earl, in truth, surprised her. It was as if he looked beyond the imposing mask Erik wore, seeing a normal a man behind it.

The countess was just as affable in her company. Like the empress she greeted Christine with a warm, welcoming smile. "It is an honour to finally meet you, _madam_," the countess murmured, revealing a heavy French accent.

"Thank you," Christine whispered; her faint reply barely audible.

The earl and countess reluctantly took their leave as an onslaught of other guests waited impatiently to be introduced. And throughout the course of trite introductions Christine painfully smiled at the unknown faces, a strange archaic name attached to each. Various lords and ladies greeted Alexander and Marie, eagerly awaiting their turn to be introduced to the object of their interest.

The formal introductions were immersed with affiliates of society; poets and artists; countless titled lords and ladies, and even members of the royal family. Each name was briefly registered within her memory, but soon forgotten as the aforementioned person left her company. Some, however, she could not forget. The malevolent expressions harboured under the genteel façade of a few unnerved Christine. And deep inside, she feared that their spiteful nature would ignite and cause unwanted misery for their hapless victims.

Three hours had passed without her notice. She sighed, secretly grateful that the long line had finally begun to disperse. Fewer faces came toward her now, her arduous task of playing a besotted wife almost concluded. She felt Erik's hand claim hers and she smiled at the slight assurance.

He had stood by her side, offering a throng of besotted gossipers the most genial of greetings. She was awed by his cavalier way of beguiling people with his imposing stance. He was endowed with the genteel rearing of an earl, and had enticed many with his alluring voice—the same voice that had once captivated her.

Christine's weary gaze fell upon two of the last of her greeters. One man was slightly shorter than Erik, his unkempt dark-blonde hair falling brazenly down his shoulders. He had the look of a Norse god, wild and untamed by the elements. But despite his undomesticated appearance, kind grey eyes beheld them with concrete reverence.

The other, however, was more refined, more debonair in his appearance. His dark hair was pulled away from his face with a leather queue; one zealous blue eye stared at her with fanatical interest while the other was concealed under a leather eye patch. To Christine, he reminded her of a boy embarking on the journey to manhood. Then again, his jubilant expression revealed an experienced practitioner in the art of love, marked and weighted by his ardent experience.

"_Monsieur. Madam._ It is an honour," the former of the two greeted with utmost respect. "I am Graf Descanov," he said, his gracious expression distinguished by years of instruction. "I bid you welcome to our beautiful country, and hope that you enjoy it through the duration of your stay." His grey eyes moved to acknowledge the man beside of him. "And this is—"

"Ah, no need to introduce me, brother," the other interrupted. His fleeting smile only added to his brother's chagrin. Reveling in this he said, "Please, forgive my brother. He has the tendency to introduce people without giving them the chance to do so themselves." He bowed courteously. "I am Alexei Descanov."

"My lord," Christine returned with urbane grace.

Alexei's expression instantly suffused with deep admiration for the woman before him. The rumours in St. Petersburg did not justify the radiance of this elegant lady. Blindly, he took her hand and gave it a chaste kiss. "_Madam_, your beauty becomes you. It truly surpasses all of the rumours at the capital." He sighed, a hint of regret behind it. "I fear I am little too late." Seeing her confusion he kindly elaborated, "If only you were not married, _madam_…"

Christine paled at his adulterous words; Erik's hand tightened around hers possessively, his golden eyes secretly admonishing the men before them.

"Alexei," Graf warned, giving his brother a quelling look.

Disregarding his brother's angered expression Alexei nodded to Erik, submitting in silent defeat. "_Monsieur_, your wife is very beautiful. I daresay I envy you!"

Erik said nothing to the noble's compliment; the feral expression in his eyes only conveyed his predatory warning. Graf noticed the subtle admonition and quietly bade his brother to follow him to the White Hall for a brief instruction on how to conduct oneself appropriately in the presence of others.

A few minutes passed as Christine felt the emergent tension between them. Erik's possessive hold had not relented, even after the Descanov brothers had taken their leave. Inwardly, she feared that his anger would be directed toward her, the unjust accusation wavered within her aching mind. Would he accuse her for the innocent fault of another? She did not doubt that his wrath would justify itself by faulting her. The spurned love he had for her only added to his defense.

But as her thoughts turned into a false vision of reality Christine realized that Erik would retain the image of a courteous gentleman until he locked them behind the hellish confines of their shared room. Her fear only intensified when her thoughts lingered upon that prospect.

Throughout dinner she barely remained in a heated conversation between other ladies and the empress. Marie, being a devout conversationalist, rescued Christine from unnecessary embarrassment as she turned the gauche conversation more toward her personal effects. Alexander had retired, taking Erik and many other jaded men with him. As for the remaining gentlemen in the room, they hovered over a mass of well-bred debutantes. The virginal faces of innocents harboured the same infatuated expression as they fawned over the opposite sex.

The dinner party lasted well into the early hours of dawn. The massive number of guests had greatly dwindled to a remaining few until Marie bade everyone to return to his or her private chamber. Seeing the reluctant revelers quit the dining hall the empress turned to Christine, giving her a meaningful smile. "You must be exhausted, my dear," she declared, her pacifying expression soothing her addled guest.

Christine could only nod in affirmation. "I suppose I am a little tired. I did not realize that dinner would last so long…"

"It usually doesn't, unless it is an Imperial ball," Marie admitted, her grin sheepish. "I believe you and your husband have intrigued everyone." She paused for a moment, looking beyond Christine's questioning eyes. "And it appears _he_ is ready to collect you," she finally said, subtly charging Christine to turn and face her husband. Marie placed a gentle hand on Christine's shoulder. "Go, my dear. I will see you in the morning."

"Your highness." Christine tilted her head respectfully, and halfheartedly moved forward—toward her farce husband.

Erik waited for Christine to bid the empress goodnight, his patience reaching its end. He saw her visible hesitance within each timid step; her unwilling approach irritated him. All night, she had taken her precious time to answer each idiotic question of the mindless fool who asked it, the confidence in her answer wavering with each passing word. It was obvious that she was nervous, daunted by those who spoke to her.

Even now, she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed the travesty in her unladylike gait. She stumbled over the large hem of her dress once, but righted herself before anyone could notice.

The empress' banquet was a success in introducing them to a small fraction of society, most of which gazed upon them with ill-represented awe and admiration. People were foolish enough to believe in their elusive stratagem: the idea of a true, everlasting love that exceeded beyond the borders of infinity and encompassing two souls, fusing them into one for eternity…

It was a fool's elusive fantasy.

Erik's twisted lips melded into an iniquitous grin. He had successfully convinced the Akhmatova family of his love for Christine. Even the tsar believed in the farce marriage. Christine had done well in deceiving people—especially the empress.

Nevertheless, he still reveled in the fact that she suffered through this debacle. He enjoyed watching her fall into a massive quagmire of doubt and despair. Christine was finally reaping the benefits of her careless actions. She acquired the ardent attention of a thousand voyeurs, each lustful and left wanting for the final act. Ironically, it was not the famed attention that she desired.

He cast aside his vagrant thoughts, holding his hand out to her. It was a mandatory act to prove the legitimacy of their union. It was not trust, nor friendship that he offered. And strangely he thought he saw a glimpse of that wistful belief in Christine's eyes. He recalled her offered hand and his hesitance in accepting it. In truth, he did not want to accept her subtle wish for a truce. But the instant hurt within her eyes begged him not to deny her his acquiescence in their unholy pact. And in a fleeting moment of madness he accepted her offer, accepted her hand and what promise of retribution that came with it.

But he would be damned if she dragged him through a hell of despair and misery again. This time she would be by his side when he traversed the hadean depths that were a wasteland of utter torture, reaching beyond all comprehension of human rationality.

"Erik…" Christine's acknowledgement of his name broke through his thoughts. Her hand instantly united with his. Erik looked away from her diffident expression, his eyes falling to their joined hands. Her hand, bare of glove, was clasped—_willingly_—in his. He stared at the physical alliance, curiously. She seemed so innocent, so trusting that her eyes mirrored that beautiful illusion.

His other hand unwillingly covered hers. And in that singular effect he willed her to follow him, without words, without visible expressions, just the invisible lull of his hand gently persuading hers to comply. Erik had compromised Christine's will by the mere caress of his hand.

"My lady." Mina removed herself from the settee next to the fireplace. She bowed humbly as Erik entered the room "_Monsieur_."

Yellow eyes regarded the timid maid with dull interest. "_Mademoiselle,"_ he replied with reciprocated deference, "if you would please see to my wife, for she has had a tiring evening and needs to rest." He moved to the door. "Inform me when you are finished."

Mina watched Christine's husband make a silent yet dramatic exodus as he quietly closed the door. Her eyes turned to see a silent Christine; the weary expression on her face was marked with exhaustion.

"_Madam_—Christine?" Mina flushed at her mistake.

"Yes?" Christine asked with a fatigued sigh.

Brief hesitation caused Mina to falter with an innumerable amount of questions burgeoning inside of her. She wanted to ask her mistress a multitude of questions that brewed inside of her mind: the food, the introductions, the many compliments Christine had received—everything. It was a woman's curiosity. One that always encouraged her childish fancy.

She slightly grinned at the nascent thoughts of her wishful thinking. Shaking them aside she moved to untie the knotted laces in the back of Christine's gown. She heard her mistress sigh as the laces gave way; the relief within her eyes appreciated the respite.

"How was it?" Mina asked as she adroitly untied the intricate laces.

Christine's placed her left hand to her bared shoulder, massaging the tension from it. "It was interesting," she mumbled, giving Mina a weary smile. "And I pray I do not have to go through that again."

"Was it so terrible?" Hazel eyes gleamed impishly. "I would think it would be every woman's fantasy to have a thousand people to admire her."

"Admire?" Christine chortled. "I believe most only wanted to see if the rumours about 'the mysterious couple' were true." Her right hand moved to assuage the ache in her temples. "In truth, it was a nightmare." She paused, considering her next line of words. "Granted, that I was only introduced to fifty other guests, I still felt that all of the country was there…"

"I suppose it would be natural," Mina mused, removing the pins from Christine's hair. "Personally, I would not desire so much attention, either." Her hands stopped their mundane obligation. "But you must tell me—and I _know_ that you are a married woman—but…"

Christine turned to face the maid. "But what?" she asked, wondering why Mina had paused.

Mina fumbled with a hairpin, her inept fingers allowing it to fall to the floor. Christine watched the pin fall lifelessly to the cold tiled floor. "What is it, Mina?" Her face mirrored concern. "What is wrong?"

"It is nothing." Mina's frown did not lessen, her brusque words saturated with a curt lie.

The prima donna considered her servant's words, debating whether or not to question their validity. After a moment's suspension she quietly nodded, her decision made. "All right," Christine permitted, albeit reluctantly. "If you say it is nothing, then it is nothing." She paused, allowing her words to settle into Mina's mind. "However, _if_ you ever need to talk, Mina, you do not have to be silent, for my sake." Her eyes brightened with unmasked sincerity. "Please keep that in mind."

Mina nodded, mutely abashed by Christine's heartfelt words. No wonder the empress and many other courtiers were impressed with this woman: she _was_ a rarity amongst the dimmed, jaded shadows that frequented the hallowed kingdom of the tsar.

"Thank you, Christine." Mina's smile was not forced by the pull of her mistress' words. "I will be sure to remember," she murmured, bending to retrieve the fallen hairpin.

An affable silence ensued as Mina carefully removed each layer of clothing. She tied Christine's hair in a loose white ribbon, giving her the appearance of an innocent child. A white, sleeveless chemise replaced the heavy gown, subtly revealing the dark feminine beauty of a river nymph. The ebony coils that cascaded against her back flowed like a dark river against white satin. The dark sapphire shade of Christine's eyes had the potency to entrance those who fell under their hypnotic spell.

Mina glanced away from Christine's still form, her eyes focused upon the drawn windows. The night's sky was now a fine shade of grey, its dull colours melding into a dreary overcast that foreshadowed snow.

"It will snow today," she said noncommittally.

Christine followed Mina's bland gaze, her eyes lightened at the forthcoming prospect. "The snow is so beautiful," she murmured more to herself than to Mina. "It reminds me of home."

Mina turned to face her mistress. "I'm sure it does. France is beautiful during winter."

"You have been there?"

"Once…" Mina hesitated. "It was long ago."

Looking away from the window Christine wordlessly concurred with Mina's derisive words. "France is beautiful," she admitted. "But the 'home' I was speaking of was Sweden." Christine bit her lower lip, trying to conceal her timid smile. "I can remember playing in the snow, while my father worked outside." The fond memory cast an unseen light in her eyes as she recalled a few memories of the winters of her childhood.

Mina listened to Christine's heartfelt chatter, noticing the warmth behind each uttered syllable. Inwardly, she knew that her mistress was revealing too much about herself—something unwise for a lady of gentle bearing to do. In spite of this, Mina was enthused with the liberty Christine used with her. It was as if she was not a true lady, only masquerading as one.

Chiding her wayward thoughts, Mina bade Christine to rest and withdrew herself from the room. Outside, she encountered the imposing figure of an impatient shadow. Mina stilled the beating of her wary heart as she moved forward to address the tangible apparition.

"_Monsieur_," she demurred, her voice strained. "I am finished. Your wife is waiting…for you."

"_Merci, mademoiselle_," a gentle voice rejoined; its light timbre unearthly.

With this silent reprieve Mina took the offer that was given to her, leaving without an awkward confrontation Christine's husband would most assuredly bestow. She sighed, silently admonishing herself for her rude departure. It was not his hidden face that unnerved her so, but the uncertainty of what lay behind it. What man would desire to hide his face from the world? What man could want the unavoidable attention that came with it? Mina could not find an answer as she made her way to the servants' quarters, her mind a mass of miscellaneous conjectures.

Erik watched the tiny maid take her leave; her pace quickened with each step. He had frightened her, he realized as he turned to open the chamber door. His mind briefly registered upon the hesitation that wavered within her hazel eyes. Her expression, though kind, still obtained the same, tainted wariness that everyone possessed when in his presence. He abruptly disregarded the fleeting thought when the door opened, revealing the stationary figure of Christine. Her rigid form was seated by a large window, its curtain drawn away from its translucent panes.

"You should be resting," he gently scolded her.

Christine's expressionless face turned, her lifeless eyes meeting his. "And you? Should you not rest, as well?" she retorted placidly.

"I do not need it, Christine," his dull reply echoed in the spacious room.

He moved to her side, his gaze following hers. Christine noticed the thoughtful gleam within his eyes; the golden intensity was profound, lingering. She felt their harsh stare fall upon her. And although she wore a satin wrapper, she felt that his eyes could see beyond the concealing fabric.

Nevertheless, Erik spoke: "Tonight's dinner was a prelude to our debut in society," he informed his sham wife.

Christine straightened in the settee. Her mouth slightly opened; agape with utter surprise. "What? But I thought…" Her blue eyes moved over his stoic figure, disbelief of his words clouding their perception. "It cannot be…"

Erik stood, unmoved by her voiced doubt. "It will be," his firm voice foreshadowed the inevitability of his words. "The tsar has already declared that we will be properly launched within a week's time."

"But why didn't Marie tell me of this?" she cried, exasperated by the situation. She despised lying to people—even people met upon introduction. "Why, Erik?"

"The empress was ignorant of it. The tsar informed me before I came to collect you." His words were death knells upon her coffin lid, each sealing her into a dark confined box for eternity. Christine feebly cradled her arms as Erik spoke once more. "It appears that you have enthralled everyone tonight, my dear." He gave her a mocking bow. "Perhaps your talent for the stage has melded into one of reality, as well."

Christine flinched at his reproving words. "Do not make me out to be a liar, Erik," she warned, her eyes instantly incensed with raw fury. "I told you I wanted no part of this."

"I recall your words, Christine," he commented blandly. "But you are a liar, nonetheless." His eyes regarded hers, mutely advising her to be silent. "You have done well this night." His compliment somewhat eased the tension between them. "Now, rest yourself." His gaze turned to the drawn curtains. "The morrow is already on the horizon."

A defeated sigh escaped her as she removed herself from the settee. Her hands subconsciously pulled the wrapper tighter, trying to conceal any visible flesh. She hesitated for a moment, looking at her captor with subtle content.

She moved forward, inexorably drawn to him. Her eyes met his, locking. The azure orbs suffused with a hidden, unknown emotion. "Erik…" she finally said, a small fragile smile touched her lips.

Erik turned away from her placating stare, his shoulders tense by her tender acknowledgement. Under his mask he frowned, the remnants of his dark brows piercing together in irritation. After a moment's deliberation he moved to face her, his eyes embossed with an arcane light. "I will speak with you in the morning, Christine" he muttered vacantly, avoiding the insecurity in her eyes.

Christine said nothing in objection to his crude dismissal. Instead she watched him leave her to the darkness and shadows once more. An unwanted tear fell from a despondent eye, its pristine surface piercing her numbed cheek.

…

**Author's Note: Another update within a month! I feel as if I am back in the swing of things! And it is a little odd that today, of all days, is the day I would update! I never planned to update on the day I first posted this. It's probably coincidence, but it's odd to me. (Shrugs.) **

**But first off, I want to say that from now on I will probably shorten the length for each chapter. It takes me forever to churn out a sixteen-thousand-word chapter and it is not fair to make anyone wait a month or more for it. I was going to continue this chapter, but I felt it needed to end here. I believe I covered what was needed and left it on a somber note! **

**And now I am sure that everyone can see where this story is going to go! (Grins) I must confess that there are a few touching moments in this chapter. And it was a pleasure to write them. I must say that I was constantly at war with myself because of the ending. I had two versions: this one and another. I was going to go with the latter but it would have been too long and drawn out. I have decided to go back and edit that part to suit the next chapter. It will be lengthier on the story's part! And perhaps I can update every two weeks instead of every month. I find that may be better! ;)**

**Also, Draegon-Fire,** **I _really_ want to thank you for bringing up that point in your review about how everyone else sees Erik and Christine in love, while they, themselves, do not. I had intended to further that notion in the story, but sadly did not. I am very sorry if that has caused any confusion. It seems my mind slips and forgets to mention important, vital things to the story. However, I hope that Erik's views on that cleared it up in this chapter. Thank you again for pointing that out! I greatly appreciate it! )**

**And now, onto the thank yous!:**

**Musicallover6,** **Lavendar, Loveroftrapdoors,** **RainsPhantom, Faust,** **Draegon-Fire,** **Ria, ****The Hand of Cthulhu,** **ChrisPgirl,** **Athene Saile, and angelofopera!**

**Everyone, thank you again for your wonderful reviews! I very much appreciate your thoughts and opinions on the story! Thanks again! **


	9. Chapter Eight: Choice: When Fate and Des...

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Eight.

A white hell dominated the frigid Russian landscape as a whisper of snow fell in unforgiving currents beyond the hallowed walls of the ancient palace. The morning did not survive the bitter the touch of winter; its gaping wounds were filled with shards of ice, covered by illustrious gauzes of ivory, the fatal fall forcing the dying light into a cold submission of apathy.

The brutality of a Russian winter left a lingering soul to fall upon the mercy of indifferent gods. It was an injustice given to those who fell beyond their favour, transcending down a broken path of despair—the cold, bitter reality of an unavoidable fate lingering upon their last breath as the silver cord that held their precious soul and body together was severed, separating them for eternity.

Erik considered his dark musings and slightly frowned at them as a dull, grasping sense of pain entered the shallow depths of his calculative reasoning, splintering his mind's eye with shrill thoughts of grandeur. All morning, he had subjected himself to the monotonous voice of the tsar, though his mind and traitorous thoughts were elsewhere.

He did not wish to accept the praises Alexander bestowed upon him. In truth, he desired to leave the tsar's company and pursue a less trivial diversion. The siren's call of Christine still lingered upon his distilled thoughts.

His jaded mind instantly summoned an image of her, mentally scrutinizing the flawless, nascent beauty of her person. It was that beauty that embellished her face with a torrent of innocence masked with a secret knowledge of something one could only assume. It was that hidden quality that vaguely reminded him of the child sleeping presently in his room, the sleeping child who had shed a single tear for his callous departure.

Was it loss that was etched upon her innocent features? Erik idly wondered. Or was it regret for all that had come to pass? It was a question, he realized, that would never be asked, nor would it ever be answered. Christine's tear would forever remain a mystery to him. A mystery in which he would never—

"Erik, these are wonderful renditions of the palace," the tsar interrupted, shattering Erik's resolute thoughts. "I have never seen sketches so detailed, so accurate." Alexander looked away from the inked designs. "These are magnificent."

"I am honoured your majesty is pleased," Erik commented apathetically.

Alexander briefly nodded and continued to study the designs. "Will there be much work to restore this level?" He pointed to the family rooms, his eyes wary and full of concern.

Erik glanced at the hastily drawn sketches, recalling the mental notes he added from his examination of the familial rooms. It was not something for an architect to concern himself with, not even the joint breaks in the ceiling could be considered a major architectural matter. Apparently, the other architects were right when they tried to placate Alexander on his notions of a drastic desire to renovate the family chambers.

And oddly enough he could not fathom why the tsar would desire to live on a level that was previously used by servants. The royal family was certainly different from other imperial households. Lush extravagance could not be found on this level of the palace. It was as if the tsar desired to live like a commoner, existing each day with the simplistic means one was endowed with.

It was certain that the tsar could be considered as such. Unlike his father or his predecessors before him, Alexander was the direct opposite of the representation of what a mandated leader should appear as. His clothes, though finely furnished, were old and almost threadbare. And strangely it did seem to affect him or the rest of his family. And nor did it affect Erik's opinion of him.

In truth, he found Alexander very tolerable. The friendly air the tsar bestowed was almost convincing, almost credible in the fact that his rule would not be one tainted by the blood of others. Perhaps like the great the tsars of the past Alexander would be considered one of its greatest leaders.

And as such, Erik would observe his benefactor's reign during the duration of his stay. It would be interesting to see this man falter or persist in his place as a sovereign leader, the Russian people falling into decline or enduring the questionable rule of a man not originally destined to be their monarch.

"Very little is required to restore these rooms," he finally said.

A fleeting expression of relief pervaded Alexander's taut features. "I am glad. And perhaps Minnie will stop her harping about having the children's rooms repaired. She fears that the ceiling will cave in on them." He sighed heavily, mutely irritated by his wife's antics. "My Minnie worries too much at times."

Alexander glanced once more at the inked sketches, and then turned a curious eye toward Erik. "How would you like to officially become an architect for me? I know that your talent is unlimited and I could greatly use that," he finished, omitting the possibility of Erik's limited funds.

A heavy silence followed the tsar's offer as Erik deliberated on what was being asked of him. The witless decision to agree to aid the tsar on the small matter restoring a few rooms was one thing. But to agree to become a commissioned architect under a powerful monarch was certainly another.

He had much time during his stay here to consider such a plausible offer. And although it displayed an abundance of wealth, it was not worth the possible outcome of revealing his acclaimed profession. The last debacle with his noted art in a ruler's court almost left him with unwanted consequences. He refused to be a pawn on a king's chessboard again.

It would be foolish to reveal his artistic skills to the world, for his ability was still noted in the far corners of the Middle East. Death would be inevitable if his identity were revealed. And Christine…would also suffer the same fate for his elusion of death. He could not have such an unwanted probability to hover over his revenge, not even when the prize was much desired on his part.

Erik drew himself up to his full height and gazed profoundly down at the seated tsar. "Your highness, your proposal is very enticing. It would be a high honour to accept such an offer, for no architect could refuse such a momentous commission…" he said, his voice heavily guarded. "However, I must decline. I do not wish for people to know of my skill here. It would not be fair to encumber other promising designers from such a position."

"You wish only to remain as my guest, then?" Alexander surmised, as if considering the reasons behind Erik's refusal. He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes fixed upon the sketches before him. He finally looked away from them, staring at Erik with a perplexed expression.

"There is much more to your refusal, Erik," Alexander confirmed enigmatically. "I understand your rejection, and shall not ask of you something you do not wish to be a part of." He slightly grinned. "But perhaps there is a way…"

He paused, as if considering the brewing notion within his mind. "Perhaps there is a way for you to accept without being acknowledged. Yes, you could make suggestions on the palace's interior and I shall reimburse you with my gratitude. You will, therefore, officially not be in my service and I shall only pay you for your advice." He moved over to his desk and hastily wrote out an indistinguishable number. "Tell me if this will suffice." He handed his potential architect the note.

Yellow eyes raked over the ridiculous amount. "It is an adequate sum for an architect," Erik agreed reluctantly. "However—"

"However, it is difficult to deny such an offer," Alexander finished for him. "You have my word, Erik. No one will know about this other than my wife. That, I will promise you."

Alexander saw the hesitance within Erik's rigid stance, the inner conflict within his acceptance or refusal tugging at his conscience. It would be difficult to disfavour the tsar and also deny fifty thousand rubles. No architect would be foolish enough to refuse such an offer.

And yet, Erik's reluctance weighed heavily upon his mind, as if tempting him to accept a death sentence. It would be difficult to allay such realistic fears. Nevertheless, the offer still remained…

"Will you accept it?"

Erik glanced at the note, and then looked at the tsar. "I want _no one_ to know of this," he replied gravely. "Do I have your word?" he asked, considering that he never believed the word of another man, for an oath was only made to catch a fool with.

"Yes, you have my word, Erik. I will make a vow to God and will not break it." He sighed heavily. "You can be assured that I will never break a promise to the monarch of us all."

Erik did not comment upon the tsar's altruistic promise. Men often made vows to their various gods yet always evaded from them. He would not be surprised if the tsar also shared a similar trait. And if his beliefs were proven true, then he and Christine would depart within the night. He could not endanger Christine or himself, no matter the promised prize.

With grave reluctance, he finally agreed. "Then I accept your offer, your highness."

Alexander smiled. "Thank you, Erik." His eyes held a similar appreciation. "I do not say this as a tsar, but as a friend: thank you for accepting my offer. You will do me a great service, and you will have my eternal gratitude for it."

"Of course," Erik said indifferently, disregarding the tsar's appreciative words. "Is there anything else that you wish to discuss?"

"Yes," Alexander muttered, looking once more at Erik's designs. He traced the inked sketches with an idle finger, and then glanced up at Erik. "I also wished to tell you that I am holding a competition for the construction of a church…"

A _church_? An ironic grin pervaded Erik's distorted visage. Out of all things that could be asked of him to create, Alexander had to choose a house for his god. He almost laughed at the irony behind it. "Interesting," he found himself blithely comment.

"Yes. It is intended to be in honour of my father." His beaming smile slowly dissipated, melding into an oblique frown. "The city Duma and I decided that it should be constructed on the grounds where he was assassinated. I found that to be a strange sort of revenge for the injustice done to my family." His massive hands balled into tensed fists. "The temporary church there will be replaced by one of a larger, much grander scale. I want it to be arranged in a pure Muscovite setting. One not affected by the westernized world.

"I have several entries already. A few I have considered, but I have not made a final decision as of yet." He hazarded a glance at Erik. "Perhaps you may make a suggestion on which I should choose."

"When do you plan to end the competition?"

Alexander grimaced. "I do not know. I suppose when I find the perfect design. I never actually placed an end date for them."

Considering the tsar's words Erik firmly nodded. "Do you wish for me to look over them and give you an opinion of them, now?"

"No." Alexander placed a hand to his chin, his face pensive. "That can wait for another time. I want to wait at least a week. A few prospective artists and architects have promised me their submissions by Saturday. I figured that perhaps by then I would make a final decision."

"Of course," Erik muttered neutrally, his analytical gaze settling upon Alexander. "Your highness, if that is all you wished to discuss this morning, then I must take my leave."

"You wish to leave my company so soon, Erik," Alexander scoffed mockingly. "And risk upsetting the tsar?"

"I must see my wife," Erik replied dismally.

A brief sort of interest gleamed in Alexander's eyes, as if secretly understanding his architect's desire to leave his company. Knowing all too well the feeling of being newly married to a beautiful woman, he said, "I understand. Truly, I do. Go and see your wife, then. It is surely, far more important than discussing palace designs." His wicked expression held no shame. "Besides, I had planned to take my sons hunting this morning anyway."

Erik merely nodded at the tsar's vexing comment, secretly hiding his innate hostility. "Your highness. If there is nothing more to discuss…" He turned to the door, but Alexander's booming voice stopped him.

"Indeed there is one more thing I wish to mention before you take your leave, _Monsieur_ de Maricourt." Alexander grinned manically. "From now on, when we are in the private sanctuary of my study, I would wish that you would refer to me as _Alexander_, not _your highness_. I believe I mentioned that before." His amused voice betrayed his caustic words.

Erik moved to the door, the mask's impassive face gazing critically at the tsar's. "As you wish, _Alexander_," he said indifferently, closing the door behind him.

…

_An idle stare of an impassive goddess reflected itself in the cold mirror's surface. Dark strands of ebony hair complemented the pale moonlike flesh that was flagrantly bared for the world to see. A flawless set of pale, glasslike eyes added to its wraithlike beauty, leaving one in total awe when his fatal gaze fell upon her. _

_The illustrious façade was haunting, riveting in a way that a mere mortal could only envision. The immobile siren, though silent, still reverberated its evocative melody, the mute voice conveying its spectral call to those who heard it, yearned for the sweet absolution of death, and sadly not hearing the age-old chant of the dead:_

Fear the Siren, for it will lull you into its cold embrace and offer you a death that will never come…

_And tragically those words, those ancient, archaic words proved all too true…_

Christine ignored the lifeless facsimile image, refusing to comprehend that she was truly gazing upon her reflection. Instead she vaguely watched Mina as she pulled another dark tendril into a loose crown, her deft fingers working tiny intricate knots into the lifeless hair. She secretly commended her servant's poor attempt to make her somewhat presentable for the empress.

Looking at the mirror's artificial image once more she saw a sea of visible torment reflected within her lethargic gaze. Her face was inexorably stripped of its vivacious beauty, leaving only a shell of its former self as the condescending waves of regret enhanced the sadness in her eyes.

Erik's callous departure had more of an effect on her than she cared to admit. His cold dismissal, along with his refusal to stay with her, only added to the upsurge of fear that permeated her soul. She could no longer face these people without him, she sadly realized.

Without Erik, she would not be able to endure the lies and careful deceptions she had hastily constructed. It was an odd comfort to confide in him when she needed him most, for it troubled her lying to others. It was not in her nature to mislead people. And yet, she did without shame when she deceived him so many months ago. Unprecedented remorse filled her with an unquenchable regret, the ignominy of her selfish actions returned to haunt her without respite.

The time for such vindictive proceedings had passed with relentless persistence; the full-force of her careless actions since that day on the Opéra's immaculate rooftop had caused a chain of events that could not be altered. The unpardonable sin in which she thoughtlessly initiated conjured a demon from the black stygian depths of the Opéra—the demon being none other than Erik himself.

It was impossible to believe that he heard her—for she was certain that she and Raoul were quite alone. However, despite her suspicions, Erik never revealed if he was truly there. Like a dark raven perched upon Apollo's lyre, Erik's shadow had inordinately cast a terrible, bleak, dismal pall on the pristine roof's surface, as if instilling an idle threat upon the unsuspecting couple.

Christine did not doubt that he was there; she could feel his soul-wrenching cry of anguish within the hollow depths of her traitorous soul. The aching sob that Raoul had heard was not projected from his crude imagination. Erik's incessant sorrow, though not seen, lingered within the grubby Parisian night's sky.

His vengeance upon her the following evening was not unjustified, she sadly reflected. For she had betrayed him in the worst way, revealing his identity and her unmerited disgust of him. She winced at the faded memory. How could she have been so cruel, so heartless? It left very little doubt as to why he hated her so…for she, in turn, hated herself.

She recalled Raoul's proclamations of hunting Erik down and killing him without mercy. And she sadly admitted that she felt a strange sort of elation that her childhood friend would come to her aid like a chivalrous knight in a faerie story. However, Raoul was far from being gallant in the ways of chivalry. He was still a child in many ways…as was she…

A faint memory called itself to the forefront of her mind, attesting to something she had almost forgotten. She barely remembered the words, for they were ancient and long since disregarded as being important. But the words, though indistinct, still rang out clearly, causing a shrill pain to splinter her fleeting thoughts:

_"You cannot imagine the pain I go through when I think of that monster. I lost Philippe because of him… "_

Raoul's acidic words pealed deftly within her mind. He had said them with bitter spite that morning in the garden, the morning after her terrible nightmare. She remembered his anger and the cruel loss of his brother. However, she did not find any sort of malice within his words, only the tragic demise of a naïve innocence in which he could never reclaim.

Christine's mind suddenly asked the impossible. What if… What if Erik was not unjustly condemning them? What if Raoul had actually sent the assassin? Her mind ached from the probability of it. He would never betray her in such a way… Would he?

"Something ails you, Christine," Mina said prophetically, disrupting Christine's conflicted thoughts. She glanced away from her work; her hazel eyes heavily fixed upon the lifeless reflection of her mistress. "Does something trouble you?"

The prima donna's frown lifted as a veil of obscurity concealed her inner turmoil. "No," Christine lied with a weak smile, severing herself from her penitent reverie. "I am a little tired. I did not realize that last night would be so demanding of me…"

"I suppose you must be, Christine," Mina allowed with an incredulous voice. "Imperial dinners are indeed quite exhausting," she murmured thoughtfully, then placed another pin into the ebony crown. "Would you like for me to leave, so you may rest?"

A faint smile reached Christine's pale lips. "No," she whispered quietly into the growing darkness. "Mina—"

A heavy knock shattered her words. Mina released her captive hold on Christine's hair as she removed herself to the door. Christine watched the mute exchange between servants. A few tense moments passed by until Mina returned, her face contorted in a small grimace.

"The empress desires your company," Mina informed her.

Christine pulled herself away from the vanity chair. "Of course," she said without hesitation. "I suppose my rest will have to be postponed until later." She smiled at her perturbed maid. " Do not worry on my behalf; I will be fine."

Mina returned Christine's forced smile. "I know." She moved to vanity and held out a silver hairpin. "However, I cannot allow you to see the empress with your hair falling about your shoulders. You are not like Gra—" She silenced her traitorous tongue, flushing at her mistake. "What I mean to say is that it would be very unladylike for you and an irredeemable shame on my part."

"Indeed it would be," Christine agreed cautiously, her voice guarding her growing suspicions.

Whatever name Mina almost revealed sounded too familiar by half. It was odd, Christine thought, that her maid would stop herself so abruptly over something so trivial as a name. But what name was she trying to protect? Or rather _whom_?

She did not understand Mina's abnormal behaviour. Her fortified words from their previous conversation returned to trouble her. What was it in Mina's despondent voice that unnerved her so? Secrets were common amongst people. She herself had quite a few. And yet, she could not distinguish the unease that coursed through her veins, flowing into her mind and corrupting it with inconceivable possibilities.

It was apparent that Mina was more than what she seemed, for her extensive knowledge vexed Christine to a point of being overly cautious. She would have to watch her words around her maid, and remember that she too could be a danger to her and Erik.

An ephemeral vision suddenly pervaded her mind's eye with a surreal likeness of her on her knees whilst Erik stood, towering over her—like an undead champion conjured from a dark spell—arrogantly facing a multitude of enraged shadows. These personified shadows reflected not only the darkness that they harboured within their malicious spirits but also the unwarranted loathing they bore for the obstinate man who shielded her from their condemning eyes.

Christine stilled herself as the false vision dimmed and faded away from her thoughts. It was not the first time her idle imaginings overcame her reasoning, severing her weak hold on reality. No, the fanciful delusions her imagination invented were heavily rooted from her father's stories—that had ultimately shifted into the rational portion of her fractured sanity, leading it a merry dance with utter madness. Her trite visions of Erik's malevolent nature, along with a glorified champion she found in her childhood friend, only added to her childish insanity. She saw everything in black and white. And ironically, there were no shades of grey in between.

Her chest ached with a new, intense understanding. The fearful revelations that she so hastily placed her faith in were nothing more than broken fragments of a story she created with her own illusory thoughts.

_"I would never hurt you, Christine…I would never hurt you, as you have hurt me…"_

The familiar, haunting words all but choked her. Erik's prophetic statement left a dulled impact upon her, disgracing her for the sad, frightened child she ashamedly was.

Yet despite her own fears, she refused to expose Erik, for her life was now indebted to him, her freedom his to with as he pleased. And if it meant to make an ultimate sacrifice on her part, she found that she could now willingly relinquish everything. Even the bright vision she had of a happy marriage that bordered on normalcy.

The paradox within her newfound charity only relayed the cold truth of her feelings for him: she was _willing_ to stay with him, forgoing all that she had once held dear. And strangely she could not feel the pain of remorse, which was sure to follow in its inevitable wake.

_Oh, Raoul…_ her mind gently called to his despondent spirit. _Forgive me. Please, please, forgive me…_

And in that fatal moment Christine relinquished her earthly hold on her beloved fiancé, forsaking the vows they had hastily made on that ill-fated evening on the rooftop. Raoul did not need her, could never need her in the way that Erik did, for her mortal angel ached with an unquenchable loneliness that she could never even begin to understand.

_I cannot be your wife, Raoul…_

A remorseful tear almost fell from her right eye.

So many years of pain… So many years of regret harboured within the embodiment of a tortured musical genius whose only sin was to have an inexcusable abnormality that the rest of the world readily condemned. Erik was cruelly damned with a face that a merciless god unjustly smote him with.

Christine recalled an idle comment he once said about his mother and how she cried over his imperfections. An unknown hatred suddenly arose and burned brilliantly within her for the woman who had virtually ignored her flawed son. How many years had Erik endured the revulsion of his wretched mother? How many tears had he unnecessarily shed for a woman who bore him to face a harsh, uncaring world that prided itself in gilded perfection? How many agonizing days passed that he did not once think of ending his miserable, tormented life?

She inherently knew that Erik was not beyond self-annihilation. And yet…he prevailed despite the unfair adversity that he faced. He had miraculously endured many years of it, surviving from each viperous strike of a witless tongue, or the cold abuse of an unfeeling hand.

And then another thought crossed her mind. How old was Erik, exactly? she briefly wondered. For he never told her of his true age, but the creased lines on his skeletal hands showed signs of an advanced age. Twenty years he had worked on his D_on Juan Triumphant_ and another twenty when he aided in the construction of the Opéra and the years prior to that…

Nearly half a lifetime was undeniably spent on the wretched stares of others. And oddly enough it left very little wonder for her since he was far more advanced in the ways of the world. Like a matured tutor he had shown her a small portion of it already. Perhaps her wariness for the unknown could be attributed to him as well.

He yearned for a new pupil, desperately wanted an apprentice to teach, to dream—to give her soul solely to his decadent music. And although it tainted her purity with its seductive lull, she reveled in the secret knowledge that she could find a sense of understanding in her atypical passion for music with her enigmatic tutor. She had needed him in those dark days of her lonely existence…just as he had needed her…

_For Erik needs me so much more…_

The veil that shielded her eyes suddenly fell to the cold stone floor, opening the azure orbs to the beautiful light that she was long denied. Whether it was by fate or merely Erik's unprecedented anger, her life forever changed by his auspicious hand, directing it to an unknown future in which she was truly destined for. Her decision to stay with him on the train was a prelude that had led up this crucial, monumental decision. And she found that staying with him was not an evil punishment.

The prima donna then wiped away the traitorous tear and smiled for her poor unhappy Erik as she turned to Mina. Her unease dissolved into a nebulous fog of idyllic ignorance—her morose thoughts of the past becoming nothing more than a faint memory.

…

"Ah, I did not expect to see you up so soon," Marie entreated Christine with a warm smile. "Did you sleep well?"

Christine returned the empress' welcoming expression. "Yes. In fact, I believe that I have not felt so alive since…" She paused briefly; trying to remember the last time she felt such elation, such happiness. Recalling her impulsive decision in her room, she chose the dark image that inspired her. "…Since I met Erik."

Marie nodded. "A young woman who falls for the one that is destined for her would most certainly find a suitable definition for being alive," the empress reflected. "I am happy to acknowledge that your rest comes second to that."

"Mother!" a small, timid voice said behind the empress.

"Mischa!" Marie reproached as she tried to release the hem of her gown from her son's bunged fingers. She sighed in defeat when her son refused to relent. Turning to face Christine she gave her an apologetic look. "This is my son, Michael," she addressed in a formal tone, then looked at the bashful child. "And this is _Madam_ de Maricourt, Mischa. Address her properly."

The three-year-old peered out from his mother's concealing gown and reluctantly said, "_Madam_, it as an honour to make your acquaintance."

"Oh, no. The honour is certainly mine," Christine returned, bending down to his level. "How old are you, by the way?" she asked as her eyes brightened with mischief.

Noticing the friendly air the stranger bestowed Michael tentatively released his mother's gown, standing proudly away from her. "I am almost four," he announced in a proud yet timid voice.

"An important age," Christine enlightened him with a glowing smile.

Michael glanced away from her and retreated to the safety of his mother's gown, his small dark head only daring to peer out from the elusive black folds.

"My son is rather shy around those who are unfamiliar to him," Marie informed her plaintively. "He will become better accustomed to your presence here. Won't you, my dear?" She gazed down at her youngest son.

The boy only nodded at her confident words.

"Arabella, take Michael to his nurse," Marie acknowledged the camouflaged maid in the corner.

The maid nodded and took the child, who was all too eager to leave the room. Seeing this, Marie gently sighed, shaking her dark head. "Children are such strange creatures, are they not?" The question, however, was directed more toward herself than Christine.

"Indeed they are," Christine answered the undirected query. "And yet, they are also so much more than that," she faintly mused, wondering if the fanciful children she would never have would also have been as intriguing as the empress' son.

"So they are," the empress returned. "But come, let us talk about things that do not concern children." She gestured for Christine to take a seat across from her.

Grinning at her guest's timid acquiescence, Marie initiated the conversation. "I have decided that since your stay will be one of long-standing, that you should be reimbursed for what you have lost." She held out a regal hand to silence the protesting Christine. "I have planned a dress fitting with _Madam_ Tuevelle tomorrow evening. She is one of the most sought-after dress designers in Europe.

"And from what I understand, she is also—how do the English say it?—all the rage in London. Many ladies-in-waiting have also acquired their gowns from her. She is even a favourite among the royals. And currently, she is designing gowns for many ladies in my court. I have summoned her for this task and she has agreed. We will begin tomorrow." Marie did not conceal her devious grin.

A deep silence assembled itself upon Christine. Guilt and the sense of empowerment dominated her mute voice, subduing her wordless protests. She felt powerless to disagree with the empress, knowing that her arguments would be discounted by Marie's opinionated reasoning.

In truth, she did need a few dresses, even if her pride refused to acknowledge it. She hated to live on the empress' kind offerings, but the question of money had thrust itself upon her reasoning, taunting her, tormenting her with the fact that she had none. She could not even purchase a gown if she wanted to. In spite of this, Marie had offered the brilliant yet simple answer to her problems. But one questioned remained…

"How can I pay _Madam_ Tuevelle for her services?" she asked aloud, not realizing that Marie overheard her.

"I knew you would ask that question," Marie responded eloquently. "But you must not concern yourself with it, my dear. Everything has already been arranged. You do not have to worry about paying for anything."

Christine dispelled her inner surprise. Everything had already been arranged? She was about to question the empress when she noticed a dark, penetrating gaze in the empress' eyes. And although Marie did not speak, her expression spoke for her: _Do not question anything. Accept it for what it is._

"Then I shall be fitted tomorrow evening," Christine conceded, watching the mirthful air return to the empress.

"We shall have to order many things for your stay here—especially for your launch into society." She shook her head in unabashed wonder. "I have never seen my Sasha so avid in holding a societal function, much less eagerly attend one.

"But anyway, perhaps something in ivory…" she suggested, returning the conversation to Christine. "You look very beautiful in it, my dear. It accentuates your unique colouring." Marie lowered her voice, giving Christine a devious grin. "And your husband…will be most pleased."

Marie laughed at Christine's sudden loss of colour, believing that her suggestive meaning utterly astonished her guest. "You must trust me on one thing, Christine. When a husband is pleased by his wife's appearance it is a good thing," she advised in a solemn voice, easily masking her previous words. "Try to remember that, my dear. For not every man is blessed with not having a wandering eye."

The empress allowed for Christine to grasp her meaningful words before she pulled a small vellum envelope from her the pocket of her gown. "Oh, and before I fail to remember, this is for you, Christine," Marie informed her, holding out the sealed note.

Accepting the note Christine looked at the ivory vellum. Her dark brows pursed together when she noticed the blank crest upon the crimson seal. Without hesitation she broke it, impulsively raking over its contents. Her frown deepened as she noticed the uneven childish writing. It disturbed her to even look at it, considering the author's deviant talents behind it. This twisted, maladjusted hand belonged to only one person:

Erik.

And although she could read its contents, it still unnerved her to gaze upon the illegible letters, for they represented the arcane perversity that personified Erik. No living man could write such a nightmare and deem it legitimate. But of course Erik did not consider himself as a living man…

_A walking corpse with a death's head._ The title rang disturbingly within her mind.

A vision of Erik's daunting mask and the acrimonious reality of what lay behind it ceased her inconsistent notions, forcing her to comprehend the meaning of the letter in her trembling hand.

The distorted words were short, their meaning simple: _Come to the stairwell that connects with the turret in the Arsenal Wing. I will be waiting._

"Go to him, Christine," Marie urged her, a knowing smile betraying her somber mood.

Christine looked at Marie, as if considering her influential advice, then restored her attention to the note. He did not sign his name—he did not have to, she idly mused as the promise of a smile melted away the cold lifeless mask that concealed her lovely face.

…

"The hours tolls late, _dearest_. Did you lose yourself in the past hour?" Erik's dark, condemning voice reverberated in the condensed stairwell.

Christine flushed under his derisive scrutiny. "I…somehow…turned myself around and instead of going right, I went left and found myself in a portrait gallery."

Erik moved to her side, offering her a gloved hand. Christine took it without hesitation, as a small, transitory wave of embarrassment inundated her composure. She smiled coyly, trying to conceal the emotive unease his strange touch invoked. A thousand unwanted—yet much desired—sensations ran through her, causing her breathing to shudder from his initial challenge.

As if reading her conflicted thoughts Erik's hands tightened around hers, purposely causing her blush to deepen to a light shade of crimson. "Such a simple mistake, I am sure," he said barely above a whisper. "Did the empress not show you all of the palace?"

"We did not have time the other evening," Christine replied mechanically, disconnecting her heart from the unknown, frightening feeling that refused to relent its warring battle within her chest. "I was shown parts of the west end and a few galleries but nothing else. I must admit that I can barely remember where the main entrance is," she explained sheepishly. "I fear that I will never find my way around the palace."

He did not comment upon her uncertainties; he only regarded her with a conservative look. He watched in avid fascination as her pale cheeks deepened in colour. And despite her sudden awkwardness around him, he found it rather…liberating on his part. Like a veil had fallen away from her once-suppressed face, revealing the timid beauty that she was ingrained with. Erik could not look away from her, nor could he cast aside the image of her that had burned itself in his eternal memory.

Christine's sudden intake of breath broke him of his musings. She turned away from him, looking beyond the ascending stairs. "I hear music," she murmured vacantly.

"Yes. The palace has a small chapel," he replied, not amused by her sudden childlike excitement.

"Oh…" Christine's smile widened. "I would love to see it." She turned to him, her eyes pleading for him to comply. "Please, Erik? Can we look at it—for only a moment?"

Yellow eyes glared at her, their answer indefinite. "No."

Christine emulated an expression of hurt. "Why ever not?" she muttered tragically, her downcast face visibly agitated by his cruelty.

Erik's loathing of her did not lessen. "You know how I feel about such things, Christine," he hissed at her. "Why do you try to vex me with your idiocy?"

His reprimanded victim did not speak for a long moment. He watched as her bottom lip trembled and a wretched tear falling from a sapphire eye. Crestfallen, she nodded, submitting to his will. "I…am sorry, Erik," she murmured dejectedly. "I…it was foolish to even ask…"

"Indeed it was," he replied harshly. "Now dry your eyes. I do not wish for my wife to cry over something so meaningless."

Meaningless… 

An eternity seemed to have passed between them as Erik waited for her to rebuke him with her altruistic notions of a living god. However, his desire to hear her condemnation of his agnostic beliefs did not occur. Instead he watched her willingly submit to his callous words, as if believing them to be true.

A profound ache in his chest subdued all thoughts of reveling in her admission of defeat. His cold reasoning as to why he should enjoy her loss was overcome by a sense of bitter resentment. Not resentment on her part, however, but on his. What insubstantial fiend caused this new sense of…discontent? he wondered.

"Christine," he found himself inexorably say. He watched her curious, tearstained face hesitantly look up at his, and his yellow eyes gleamed with an arcane, hellish light. His dark intent was vague, unknown.

And then he spoke: "Come. We will visit this house of your god, if it will _please_ you."

Her pale lips opened in utter surprise. "But, Erik—"

"Come," he interrupted her. "I will be able to speak with you privately in there." His hand tightened around hers once more, bidding her to follow him up the narrow pathway.

Christine obeyed without question as she blindly followed behind him up the winding stairs. Sheer amazement absorbed her present hurt as the divine presence of One greater than she inundated the room before her.

Massive archways embellished the sanctuary with a Romanesque style that hailed from the west. Separate chambers, which were artistically left agape, complemented the main vestibule. Christine felt the sudden release of Erik's hand, leaving her to explore the vacant sanctuary without his watchful eye.

Reveling in this newfound freedom she stepped away from him and moved into the center of the entranceway. Her head tilted a fraction as she gazed helplessly at a large opaque dome. She stared at its pristine-white surface and felt a closer connection with her God.

Ubiquitously, paintings of pious saints and prognosticated prophets filled the room with their divine images. Candles faintly burned reverently to the unseen deity that bespoke praises of His name. The room in itself was a hallowed sanctuary for the Christian God. And as such, Christine graciously welcomed the sanctified ambiance the elaborate chapel offered.

But the sudden intake of divinity was quelled by the cold touch of her old master. Christine reluctantly turned to face Erik. "Beautiful," she commented airily. Her awed expression then became sincere as her hands sought his to show her appreciation. "Thank you, Erik. You do not know how much this means to me."

Erik's eyes widened from her sudden omission. And on his own volition he took her hand, capturing it in his imprisoning hold. _"Christine…"_

Time was lost between them as they silently looked upon each other, their joined hands united for that fleeting, temporal moment. Christine said nothing as Erik's inquiring eyes moved disturbingly over her, the golden-yellow orbs opaque, masking all feelings and sentiments he may have had toward her. Her heart beat irregularly from the unknown sensation that pervaded within her.

Christine's smile faded as her eyes darkened from an intrinsic fear of this unknown—unwanted—feeling. It was then she realized that she both feared and respected this man, the fear derived from a nameless source. But it was not the same fear she had of him at the Opéra. It was a new fear. One she could not describe. And ironically, one she actually encouraged.

And then, as if it were only a vapour of smoke, it dissipated, leaving only the expressionless face of the cracked mask before her. Her tensed shoulders fell, as if alleviated by a deviant hand. Her mouth instinctively opened, the gentle, melodious words flowing out: "What was it that you wanted, Erik?"

The grip on her hand loosened as Erik's deft fingers involuntarily caressed hers. "The tsar has moved our launch to the end of the month. You will have a few weeks to prepare." He grinned at her agape expression. "I thought it would be better for you and he also agreed. In addition, I have arranged for you to be fitted for a new set of dresses…"

Her eyes widened in surprise by his unexpected words. "It was _you_ who arranged the fitting? Not the empress?"

He raised his hand in a gesture to silence her. "Draw up a list on what you need: dresses, evening gowns, and anything else that you may require. The cost is of no consequence."

Christine looked at him, her face a mask of confusion. "But why, Erik? The cost for such things will be very expensive…I could never ask that of you…" her voice faltered, breaking on the border of a stifled whisper, "…for I know your funds must be limited…"

"Christine, look at me." His yellow eyes bore into hers. "You cannot live on the empress' charity for ever. I will pay for everything you need."

"But how? I know we lost almost everything that night…" She shook her head, her skeptical voice muttering incoherent validations.

Erik inwardly sighed at her childish inanity. "I have been commissioned by the tsar. You will not have to concern yourself with my 'limited funds' any longer."

"Commissioned?" She slightly frowned, then looked at him. "For what?"

"The tsar requires my advice on a few palace designs. He has paid me well for my opinion…" His voice fell to a low, ominous whisper. "Though it is an advantageous prospect on our part, you cannot acknowledge me to anyone whom may ask about my profession, Christine," His grave words prodded a look of suspicion from her.

"I desire privacy, _mon ange_," he answered for her. "I do not like curious people. I am sure you remember that well." His possessive hand tightened around hers. "I will not have _anyone_ to discover us." His eyes gleamed with a harsh certainty. "My knowledge of being an architect must remain unknown, Christine."

"I do not understand, Erik." Her eyes mirrored sheer confusion. "Your skills could be of great use here…"

"If you value your life, then you will remain silent," he said harshly.

She took a mental away from him as an appalling realization dawned on her. "There is something you are not telling me, Erik." Her voice lowered significantly. "There is something—in the past—that you wish to hide." She paused, waiting for him to confirm her worst fear. When he did not, she continued. "I am right, then."

"You are very perceptive," he commended her.

Christine smiled despite herself. "And you are truly a mystery, Erik. I doubt I will ever understand your motives," she said quietly, her voice thoughtful. She steadied herself and looked at him significantly. "But why would I wish to?" she unexpectedly mused.

"Why indeed?" he rejoined noncommittally. "Come. I believe your god is not here to placate your fears. You will better serve me if you know your way around," his sonourous voice beseeched her.

"You mean to show me the palace, then?" she asked naively, and instantly scolded herself for her stupidity.

The porcelain mask turned to her, its dark slits looking down at her with cold indifference. "Of course. Why would I not? A thoughtful husband would do no less," he chided her, guiding her away from the false domain of an uncaring deity.

…

Author's Note: _And it is within this ill-fated chapter that Christine's promise to Raoul inevitably shatters…_

Dear God, I enjoyed writing that part so much! It was rather therapeutic on my part. I finally bridged an enormous gap that has been plaguing me since I began this story! And I suppose I partially have to thank the song _'Atonement'_ for that. It's on _The Bourne Supremacy_ soundtrack. It gave me a lot inspiration when I needed it most. And I must admit that I listen to various artists when I type. I don't know why, but it seems to help me…

Anyhoo, an update within a month! It seems my inspiration has returned with a vengeance. And it is a vengeance in which I will certainly not question… Oh, by the way, this will probably be my shortest chapter. It's an odd feeling, really. But I _do_ need to cut them—badly. Oh, well…

**I am sure many can begin to see a little…tension/confused/mixed emotions on Christine's part. I did not mean for that to happen just yet. It just…did. Besides, I believe it fit in well at the end—a crack in Christine's brilliant omniscience, if you will. However, I must confess that even though she has decided to stay with Erik without having hopes of returning to Raoul, that it does not mean that she's in love with him… I believe it will certainly be quite some time before that happens. I still think that she has feelings for Raoul but not in the respect that she possibly once had… I will definitely go into that in future chapters. (A bit of foreshadowing, there…)**

**And I also had a mention of Raoul in this. (Several times, in fact! I love mentioning him!) Albeit it was only a conflicted flashback… :( I know I should introduce him, and I eventually will. But right now it would conflict with what I have planned… _He_ will be back in this story, however. I promise! You could say he is rather vital to the plight of Erik and Christine… :)**

**All right. Was there anything else that I need to mention? Oh, yes, I must say that I will _hopefully_ have the next chapter out sometime by the end of this month or the beginning of next. I think my college schedule will work out well for my time this semester. No algebra classes until summer!**

**Oh, and loveroftrapdoors, I am happy to hear that you may write your own story. Let me know if you do, I will be sure to read it! :)**

**And now onto the thank yous!:**

**loveroftrapdoors, Phantom of the Past, musicallover6,** **Faust, The Cure, angelofopera, Shunsoku, Phantomette, saturngurl123, The Hand of Cthulhu, possumgurl, Draegon-Fire, silver-eyes, Moonjava, arianna-1984 thanks so much for the comments, suggestions, and reviews! I honestly do appreciate them! :)**


	10. Chapter Nine: A Lament in the Darkness

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Nine.

The absence of an age-old innocence fell away, descending into the ever-churning waves of dissolution. The antediluvian structure that held such balance, such relief, collapsed within itself; the archaic ideology thus being shattered, its ashes saturating the merciless sea with its remnants.

The mournful cry of its lament, however, went unheard, unknown to the rest of the world as a foray of snowflakes collided against the cold, unforgiving glass panes of a gilded window. The life of each flake, though fleeting, melded itself against the translucent surface, as if becoming one with something greater than its small intricate form could ever fathom.

As such, the breath of life escaped it, depriving it of the vivacious spirit it once possessed. And like a star fading out of existence, so too, did it subside and become nothing more than a small droplet of purified ice, gathered amongst a congregation of others.

Christine watched the snowfall from the gothic window; her azure eyes were riveted—captivated—by the beauty of a white death. Eternity hung within the balance as the idle, blissful metaphors that dominated her mind fell from the idyllic happiness in which she felt. She looked away from the lifeless wasteland and gazed at the vanity mirror's reflection, seeing beyond the cold metal and glass.

Her vibrant eyes dimmed from her reproachful likeness, facing the porcelain illusion once more. She disregarded the artificial countenance and concentrated on the mirror itself. What lay behind it? she idly wondered. Would an unseen apparition return her blatant stare? Or would it silently mock her for her idiocy?

The misconceptions of her brief resurrection in knowledge only brought forth a new realization: ignorance of the unknown would always be a part of her life. The unforgivable, inequitable pull of madness led to the disenchanted notions of an indefinite absolution, a feeling of being almost complete. Christine yearned for that, desired the amalgamation of becoming one with a greater being. And yet, she was torn asunder from that intrinsic need as another strap of her corset fell into place.

"Christine," Mina's steady voice called from behind.

Christine turned, facing her maid with a questioning eye. "Yes, Mina?"

"Are the laces too tight?" The maid glanced at her work, her face contrite with the image of the caged prison upon her mistress. "It seems that I always lace them too tightly…"

"They are fine, Mina," Christine reassured her with a convincing smile, hiding the pained truth behind it. "I would prefer them to be too tight than too loose."

Mina returned the false gesture. "Indeed. Either faint or have your gown come apart... A difficult choice for many, I imagine." Her grin widened. "Though I must confess that I have witnessed a few incidents that bordered upon an embarrassing scandal—or I should say, a terrible embarrassment to a few ladies—whose names I will not mention—during a few of the Imperial balls."

Seeing Christine's interest, she continued. "I must say that wearing a fichu during a Russia _mazurka_ is not very wise, nor is it prudent to…ah…have a set of loose jewels over a gaping _décolletage_. I believe the poor woman has yet to recover from _that_ incident."

The prima donna laughed, despite the fact that she should indeed pity the poor women's misfortunes. Incidents such as those that Mina had blithely described were quite common during fêtes and gala masquerades at the Opéra Populaire. Once incident, in particular, came to mind. It was highly doubtful that she could share the fact that the fair and beautiful La Carlotta sang like a toad during a performance…

Her mind suddenly shifted to that night. Erik had been the cruel origin behind the Spanish diva's tragic shame. His art as a ventriloquist had proved beyond compare, unparalleled by the staged artists the rest of the world affectedly acclaimed.

She remembered his cruelty, his malice, and his childish machinations; his human pawns inadvertently doing his will. The managers, the stagehands, even the esteemed _Madame _Giry followed the instructions the Opéra ghost left in his notes—some of which, both commanded and threatened his pawns into submission.

Christine vaguely recalled the hatred Firmin Richard disclosed that night when she stole into the Opéra. Yet, his hatred also reflected the annoyance of her abrupt flight from the stage and the tragedy that had sadly followed it. The body of Philippe had washed upon the banks on the Rue Scribe side, his death being the result of a mere accident. Raoul's vain attempt to save her was deduced as only a momentary bout of madness. And as for the Opéra ghost…Erik was merely an illusion, a fantasy contrived by the ingenious minds of the _corps de ballet_.

With that knowledge, Christine doubted the truth would ever be revealed, and the story behind it would one day become nothing more than a forgotten memory, faded and decayed by Time's wearing touch. And although the remains of her fractured sanity cried out against such madness, she wished for it to remain as such.

Erik would never be safe if the whole of Paris—the world—knew of him. The many deaths, tragedies, and crimes he had committed over the years would certainly condemn him. Christine refused to subject him to the cruelties of the world any further. Even if he caused so much misery for others…even to her…she could never inflict another fragment of pain upon his soul.

She cared for him…Deeply. There were no words, no reasons as to why she felt such a strange yet conflicted attraction towards him. It was not in the sense of true love, but more of an understanding of his soul. She was bound to him in a way that marriage could never ordain. It was innate—instilled within her, giving her a new sense of awareness and inevitably shattering another concrete barrier of her inborn naivety.

A recent, more pleasant memory then bordered upon the horizon of her mind. The past weeks she had spent with him increased a subtle admiration of him. He had been considerate to show her the palace, taking her through many of its galleries and private rooms. She saw a side of him that she had not seen since…since he let her go, releasing her from the vows she had reluctantly made to him and relinquishing whatever hold he had on her.

Erik had unwillingly resigned his rights to her, giving her the liberation she wanted, desired most in the world with a promise to leave her be. He promised her, allowing her to marry the man—boy—he had lost her to. With his blessing, Christine was released from those hallowed vows, free to leave him and live the rest of her days in peace with the man she allegedly loved…

However, the false vision she once had of the providential union was now faded, obsolete. She could no longer envision it, or even understand her reasons for such childish fantasies. It was as if she had awakened from a dream, only to find it discarded, and strangely unwanted.

Though in spite of everything that had transpired, she could not find any regret for her loss, for it was by fate—and a cruel betrayal—that had changed the sobbing, incoherent Erik into the vengeful creature that he was, compelling him to take her as his prisoner; his self-righteous indignation strangely justified.

And now, here she was, his once more. However, this time, willingly.

"Christine," Mina's voice interposed. "I believe the empress will be most pleased with your choice in gowns," she commended her mistress, silently admiring the pale-yellow evening gown. "_Madam_ Tuevelle is certainly gifted at her craft."

Christine examined the gown in the mirror and vaguely smiled. The final sum of her fitting and gowns had certainly depleted whatever commission Erik had retained from the tsar. Inwardly, she felt a little remorseful for accepting the gowns and other garments she had purchased, but Erik would not accept any apology. Instead he commended her choices, telling her that she would be the true illustration of a flawless wife—his wife.

It was an odd statement, but could she expect any less of him? Erik was an anomaly, a brilliant enigma. And one she greatly appreciated. Without Erik, it would be impossible to endure this endless masquerade and its intricate web of wondrous deceit. Without Erik…

"Indeed she is," Christine finally agreed, returning her thoughts to the present conversation. "I cannot believe she finished them within a week's time."

"One of her many talents," Mina informed her, smiling. "And also one that has made her infamous within many countries. At this moment, I do not doubt that England's aristocracy is in a terrible malaise." She placed a silver pin into Christine's hair. "I heard that her parting from the Victorian court left many young women rather…discomforted by the news."

"Do many depend upon her services?" Christine turned, eyeing the maid with sheer astonishment. "There are many other women who design gowns. Surely…"

Mina smiled at her mistress' baffled expression. "Ah, but many do not have the talent that _Madam_ Tuevelle has. Nor do many gently bred ladies wish for any other. It is fashion, and is considered to be one of true significance."

"Many women in Paris also seem to have that notion," Christine reflected blandly. "I remember how many would wear the same, ridiculous style of dress—the colours were atrocious and unpleasant to the eye." She grimaced at the horrid memory. "It is unpleasant to even speak of it."

"Truly?" Mina asked. "And many of our courtiers have a tendency to envy Parisian fashion. It is considered to be _haut monde_ to many." Saying this, Mina urged for Christine to rise. "However, come. I do believe the empress—and her children—are waiting for you."

Christine nodded; accepting the shawl Mina offered her. "I have already met her youngest son; he was rather shy."

"He usually is," Mina concurred with a slight smile. "The tsarevich and his brother, George, however, are certainly quite a pair. And Xenia…the grand duchess is unfortunately placed in the middle of three brothers." She sighed with palpable dismay. "I pity the poor child."

"It must be difficult for her. Although I do confess that I sometimes wished for a sibling myself." Christine slightly frowned. "It was rather difficult when my mother passed away and Papa was left with the obligation to watch over me." Her eyes fell to Mina, giving the maid an insightful glance. "It is hard to let go of things that have already faded from this world…"

Mina inwardly flinched at Christine's words, knowing all too well of the abstract irony behind them. It was difficult to imagine the woman before her ever knowing the feeling of such loss. And yet, she did. It made her seem almost…common—to a certain degree. Yet, Christine de Maricourt would never be something as mundane and degrading as an impoverished mortal born of the lower caste, she silently reflected.

"I know," Mina quietly agreed. "We seem to share a common bond, Christine. I lost my own mother last winter. I have no one else. No one other than the other servants here and a few acquaintances."

"I am sorry for your loss," the prima donna murmured dejectedly, realizing that the impact upon losing her own mother was not as severe as Mina's loss had apparently been. She could faintly recall the image her mother, mainly the sound of her lovely dulcet voice, though the face and maternal expressions were a little harder to call to mind. Each day, she lost another piece of the woman who bore her. And each day, the face that belonged to the memory also faded into the acute demise of an absence she utterly despised.

"Do not be. My mother did not suffer; she died in her sleep." A tear escaped from a hazel eye. "It was God's will that she be taken quietly within the night."

Christine looked at Mina, her expression thoughtful. "I am sure it was," she answered brokenly, giving a sense of closure to the dismal subject.

"Come, Christine," Mina said, dismissing the ache of loss within her embittered heart. "The empress will be waiting."

…

"I have told you before, Nicky: I saw him in the hallway with Father not but three days ago."

The tsarevich merely glowered at his brother and disregarded the illegitimate drivel. "George, many people converse with Father in the halls. It is not at all uncommon for them to do so."

George returned his brother's apathetic stare. Undeterred by Nicholas' laconic acknowledgement, he muttered, "But still, I _saw_ him. The man—whatever he was—was wearing a mask." He turned to his sister and grinned. "It was dark, Xenia. Darker than you could ever imagine, and this strange man, wearing a white mask, was speaking to our father…" His voice lowered several degrees. "He was wearing a black cloak and the only things you could see other than the horrid cracked mask were his yellow eyes, which gleamed like two stars borne of hellfire…"

Xenia outwardly gaped at her brother and sought protection from him by hiding behind Nicholas. "Make him stop, Nicky," she pleaded to her oldest brother. "He frightens me…"

Nicholas, though only a few inches taller than his brother, towered over him like the future tsar he was destined to be. "Stop this nonsense, George. I have had enough," he reproached in a regal tone.

The sardonic passion within the grand duke's eyes subsided, giving in to his brother's cold censure. "All right, brother. I will stop. Though I must say that I would love to have eyes like that. I am sure that I could frighten half of Father's guests," he mused with a devious grin. "That would certainly surprise Mother."

"Give her a failure of the heart is more like it," the future tsar derided in a dry voice. "Besides, what does it matter whether or not—"

"Children," Marie interrupted her son as the doors to the library opened. Eyeing them with remote suspicion, she said, "I wish for you to meet out guest of honour," She extended an imperial hand out to Christine in a dignified gesture. "This is _Madam_ de Maricourt."

Three pairs of questioning eyes turned and stared at Christine in silence. The prima donna flinched under their intrusive scrutiny as the harsh silence between them droned on within the library. The mute agitation between her unyielding observers began to unnerve her. Never before did she feel so restless, so uncertain of herself. Even when she smiled and deceived complete strangers her first night here, she could not find enough courage to speak or say anything at all.

Marie, watching the disquiet between her children and guest, was the first to shatter the burgeoning discomfort between parties. "Remember your manners," she inaudibly reminded her discourteous brood.

"_Madam_," the children said in unison, curtly yet regally bowing to her.

Christine mirrored their stilted greeting, silently regretting her poor attempts at proper etiquette. "It is a pleasure to meet all of you," she murmured graciously, tenderly smiling at the vacant faces.

"_Madam_, you honour us by your presence here," Nicholas returned in a somber, cordial voice. "I do hope that your visit here remains as one to remember kindly." He bowed, taking her hand in his and lightly tracing his lips over her gloved fingers. "Please call upon me should you need anything."

"_Merci_, your grace." Christine blushed at the young man's inconceivable courtesy, inwardly dispelling the belief that a child so young could exemplify such civility. It was as if it had been ingrained within him, proving that of his noble bearing.

She glanced at the other children. Michael was not present, but his siblings shared an incredible resemblance to each other. The future tsar had apparently been the one to greet her so intimately, while the others were his younger siblings.

The daughter, Xenia, who was partially obscured by her brother, gave Christine a slight smile as she turned to her mother. The empress silently gestured for her daughter to come away from her brother and stand by her side. Xenia obeyed without question as her silent mother placed a loving hand upon her shoulder. "And this is my daughter, Xenia, whom I am sure to have mentioned to you before." She then glanced at her sons. "And these are my sons, George and Nicholas."

Christine nodded to the imperial sons in acknowledgement, vaguely noticing the striking similarity between their facial expressions. "A pleasure, your graces," she demurred.

Nicholas returned Christine's shy smile whilst George overtly stared at her. His gaze hardened, as if uncovering a secret hidden under the delightful façade of the strange yet fascinating woman before him. "_Madam_, are you the one who survived the train accident near the border?" his shrill voice questioned as his blue eyes widened from the realization.

"Yes…" Christine answered warily, her voice heavily shrouded. "I am she."

After a long moment of silent deliberation the grand duke finally spoke. "It must have been a trying time for you—to escape such peril." His eyes lightened from his dark thoughts. "I must commend you, _madam_. Truly, you have inspired many here in the art of surviving the harsh jurisdictions of the world."

The prima donna blanched at the grand duke's words. "Your grace," she began timidly. "Surely…"

"No," he interjected. "I am honoured to be in your presence. Perhaps you can recant your story to us."

"Another time, George," Marie answered for Christine, eyeing her son with a hint of speculation. "For now, I only wish for all of you to meet our guest; she will be staying with us for quite a while."

Nicholas' somber eyes brightened at his mother's words. "That is splendid news," he remarked, his eyes remaining solely upon Christine. "If you stay with us through the spring, you must permit me to take you boating on the lake sometime. It is an impressive sight for someone who is foreign to its beauty." His slight frown fell away, revealing a shy, timid smile. "That is, if you would want to, of course."

"I would love to, your grace," Christine mirrored his smile.

The tsarevich looked away, slightly blushing from her acceptance.

Marie looked at her son with what be considered as approval, however veiled with a hint of distrust. "A considerate thought, Nicky," the empress commended her son. "The lake is, indeed, a wonderful place in the spring." She turned to Christine. "However, I must say that the gardens are one of my favourite places to visit while staying here. I am sure that we shall take quite a few outings in the spring."

Before Christine could agree to Marie's proposal a knock upon the library door interrupted her. She turned a curious eye to the set of gilded doors, but said nothing as the unknown soul lingered behind them.

"Yes?" Marie asked an imperious voice, the door opening to her acknowledgement.

The downcast face of a maid inclined herself further to exemplify the expected veneration of those higher in rank than she. Her pale eyes shifted, moving to faintly consider that of the empress. "Your highness," she murmured reverently. "The Countess Alessandrov has come to call. She wishes to see you."

"Tell her that I will be there as soon as I can be," the empress commanded in a congenial tone.

"Your highness, if I may," the timid maid broke in, "she was rather persistent in her request to see you."

"Dear God," Marie muttered to herself. "What is so important that she requests my audience at this moment?" she asked the maid in an exasperated tone.

"Her granddaughter is with her," the maid reluctantly supplied.

Marie frowned at the maid's condemning words. "I see," she briefly paused, her frown deepening. "Then I shall be there directly," she said, dismissing the maid from her sight.

A tense sigh escaped the empress as her face expressed that of distant irritation. "I do apologize for this," Marie directed her words to Christine, then looked at her children. "Entertain _Madam_ de Maricourt in my absence. I will return shortly."

The children said nothing to their mother's command as they watched her quit the room in a tired yet incensed fashion. George glanced at the door, sighing as his siblings shared his unspoken thoughts. "Mother is certainly upset," he commented lightly, then smiled. "I do hope that the Countess Alessandrov is not fobbing her horrid granddaughter off on us."

"Oh, don't even utter that wretched possibility!" Nicholas rejoined, imitating his mother's imperious frown. "It's bad enough to see her in the court, let alone have her as a guest here." He sighed, then turned a remorseful eye to Christine. "I do apologize, _madam_, our manners"—he directed his comment toward he and his brother—"have been rather lacking as of late."

Christine said nothing to the tsarevich's apology; she only nodded, accepting his admission of guilt. "Your grace," she began, turning the gauche conversation away from the unnecessary apology. "If you please tell me about the palace in the spring, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Of course," Nicholas beamed, forgetting his momentary lapse of etiquette. "The palace is certainly beautiful during the spring and summer months. Mother was right about the gardens, too. We also have park here as well." He glanced at the window and sighed. "However, during the winter, it can become quite dull here. It is much better to spend the cold months in St. Petersburg or Moscow. Our family usually stays there until the Season has ended. You came a little too late, I fear; we just left the capital a few days before your arrival."

"Is St. Petersburg that beautiful?" Christine asked naively.

Nicholas grinned, despite his guest's discomfort. "Of course it is. I would rather be there than here. But Father prefers Gatchina over the noise and crowds of people at the capital." His blue eyes focused on hers. "Perhaps you will stay long enough to see it. I am sure that Mother would be pleased to return, and it gives us the perfect excuse to go before next winter."

"Indeed," George seconded his brother's proposal. "I prefer the noise and crowds myself than being in complete isolation here." He turned to his sister. "And you, Xenia? Which do you prefer?" Xenia only smiled, protectively cradling the porcelain doll within her tiny arms. "And she also agrees," the grand duke confirmed, then looked at Christine with hope. "Perhaps you are the one to give us that excuse, _madam_."

Christine blushed under George's confident scrutiny. "I somehow doubt that I could be a reason, your grace."

"Oh, come now, _madam_. Surely you realize that you have intrigued half of the court already. I have heard the servants say that you are the main reason anyone comes to call. Mother has to either accept or reject any further guests, and I cannot remember the last time that so many were in attendance here," George supplied with a convincing grin. "And I must say that strange fellow that accompanied you here also has the palace in quite a dither…"

"You mean Erik?" Christine's face turned pale as the words slipped silently into the vacant air.

George glanced at her agape expression and grinned. "So that's his name. I have not heard anyone say it to my knowledge. Everyone always calls him—" He stopped when Nicholas jarred him in the side. "What? It's true."

"From the servants' mouths, no doubt," Nicholas provided dryly. "You know that Mother and Father will be irate if they knew you were hanging on to every word of the unfounded gossip you hear," he scolded his brother silently, and whispered, "And you are also being inconsiderate to our guest."

The grand duke groaned at his brother's reprimand as he reluctantly turned to Christine. "I apologize, _madam_. That was rather rude of me. It will not happen again."

"It's quite all right," Christine murmured compassionately, the tangible forgiveness shown within her soothing words. "I am sure that my husband and I have disturbed the peace here."

"He's _your_ husband?" George gasped. "I thought he was merely the other survivor. I did not realize…I thought that…My God, that is amazing!"

Christine stepped forward, trying to placate the boy's outrageous ravings. "He is my husband," she replied, convincing the bewildered boy with her gentle words. "Perhaps you would care to meet him?"

The grand duke's grin widened. "That would be wonderful, _madam_." He threw a wayward glance at his siblings. "Wouldn't it? I am sure Father will arrange a meeting, though he is always busy with the city Duma and other high-ranking officials of the court," he grumbled to himself, his eyes shifting from them to the hem of Christine's gown. "Yes, an audience with your husband would be grand, _madam_." His calculative gaze moved from the gown to her face, eyeing her with a pointed, quizzical stare. He watched her intake of breath, secretly knowing that he was upsetting her with his insolence. But he had to know…

"_Madam_, I must ask of you one more thing," George muttered noncommittally.

Christine's azure eyes questioned his. She considered his meaning, incredulous as to where this perverse conversation might lead. "Yes, your grace?" she asked cautiously, her wariness hidden with a false smile.

George merely stared at her, his dispassionate eyes boring into hers. After a moment of deliberation, he finally spoke. "Why does he wear it? What has he to hide from the rest of the world?" he questioned, not caring if he offended her with his blatant curiosity. "_Madam_, you must tell me. Why does he wear the mask?"

"George!" Marie's voice chimed in as she entered the chamber, her dark eyes solely upon her son. "I believe it is time for you and your brother to return to your studies. You have neglected them long enough. And take your sister to Olga upon your return."

"Yes, mother," Nicholas replied, taking Xenia by the hand. He glanced at his brother with what could be considered as pity until the sharp gaze of his mother prevented any further sympathy.

Marie escorted her children to the entranceway, her wordless speech to them—and to George in particular—created an expression of fear upon their gaunt faces. George paled under the empress' cold scrutiny, his brother firmly taking him by the arm before he could literally collapse on the floor.

Christine watched the scene with growing dismay, a small ounce of pity surmounting her innate dread. She realized that Marie's words were not kind, holding a dire warning and the promise of retribution before the sun died that day. The sin that had wrought such righteous anger was precipitated by the grand duke's brazen yet legitimate question.

_"Why does he wear it?"_

If he only knew why, Christine thought miserably. But she could never reveal the reasons as to why the man who posed as her husband wore the horrible cracked obstruction that shielded his face from the condemning eyes of the world. How could she explain to a child why Erik hid under a veil of obscurity, or why he desired to linger in the shadows that had comforted him throughout the endless years of his dark existence?

A deep, profound sense of pity overcame her, infusing her with another wave of guilt. Long ago, she felt the need to tell someone—anyone of what lay underneath the mask's broken surface. She had, in fact, revealed it, betraying Erik with her incoherent thoughts and debased fears.

But she was no longer that terrified girl on the roof, lamenting her sorrows to someone who could never understand the full magnitude of her plight. No, that child had died the night when she realized her dreams were nothing more than mere fragments of a faded desire that had perished long before she ever realized it. But where her childish soul had died, a woman who could see beyond the face of a monster, finding the man from within was inevitably born.

And although Erik kept his true self hidden under the imposing façade, Christine knew that his wretched deformity could no longer terrify her, for she no longer feared the physical ugliness that decayed the ingenious talent of the man who sought to destroy her. Nor could she find the strength to hate him for it.

"Christine, I apologize for my son's behaviour," Marie's docile voice asserted through the midst of Christine's disjointed conjectures, ignorant of the complicated metaphors and broken similes that pervaded the prima donna's current state of mind. She gave her guest a regretful look and said, "He is very curious about things he knows little of."

Christine turned to her, setting aside her mordant thoughts. "I understand," she demurred, adding, "People will always ask why my husband wears a mask. It is expected and cannot fully be avoided," her voice echoed, remaining distant, detached.

Marie slightly frowned at the cold words. "And that is something that I wish to discuss with you," she replied, not revealing the inner frustration and concrete embarrassment that George had unknowingly initiated through his damned curiosity. "Let us sit down then; I do not wish to discuss this matter in an uncomfortable manner," she offered with an imperious hand.

Silently obeying, Christine took a seat opposite the empress. She waited, patiently, for Marie to speak; ready to concede, and God help her, answer another bout of questions, which would undoubtedly be related to Erik. Her face remained impassive, listless. But despite her bravado, Christine could not find the means to excuse herself from the daunting presence of the immaculate empress. In truth, she was frightened by the prospect of confessing something in which she could never reveal, or even utter in half-spoken truths.

She would not betray Erik a second time, no matter the disapproval and heavy censure Marie would surely divulge. But her sacrifice, though small, was well worth the pain she would endure. It would prove her deep convictions to the anomalous man who, incredibly, haunted her mind with such a relentless persistence, compelling her to give in to his dark presence. And ironically, she surrendered herself each time to the foreboding manifestation within her mind.

But despite her atypical musings, Christine finally smiled, her lifeless face falling and shattering upon the cold stone floor. Her voice erupted from its silent prison, evoking words that had unfortunately died within it. "What was it that you wished to speak of, your highness?" she asked with an acute, penetrating gaze.

Marie returned Christine's avid stare. "Then we shall get to the heart of the matter, my dear," she idly mused, continuing without pause, "I know that many will ask, or at least wonder why your husband wears a mask that conceals the whole of his face." Marie's dark eyes stilled; becoming relentless as her refined words bespoke her concerns. "There is a reason why he wears it, and I will not ask you the purpose of his wearing it, nor will the rest of my family—or my guests—for the duration of your stay."

Christine gaped at Marie, utterly speechless. "Th—thank you, your highness," she muttered disjointedly.

Obsidian eyes cast aside the stifled appreciation. "Whatever he conceals, I am sure, is of great importance to him. I will not question it, Christine. Rest assured that this matter is concluded and will not be raised again." The empress vaguely smiled. "Besides, I find it somewhat intriguing to have a little mystery to a man that the court knows very little of."

"My husband is indeed a mystery to all," Christine enigmatically revealed, agreeing to Marie's mirthful statement.

"It seems that most men are, though many do not have that alluring fascination to them. My Sasha is physically imposing, yet holds a great deal of charm when he wishes to impart it upon someone." She laughed. "I am sure that even Victoria herself loathes being in his presence.

"But enough about our husbands," Marie said dismissively. "What did you think of them—my children?"

"They are wonderful, your highness—"

"Marie," the empress corrected.

"Marie," Christine repeated with abashed grace. "I enjoyed my time with them. Your sons entertained me while you were away. Your daughter remained silent, however. But I knew she enjoyed being with her brothers." Her eyes lightened, revealing the truth behind her words. "Thank you for introducing them to me."

"You may reconsider thanking me in the future, my dear," Marie asserted with a faint smile. "You will see a different side of them sooner or later." She chortled at the trivial statement. "They can be quite mischievous at times."

"It would be odd if a child was not," the prima donna returned. "I am sure I was the same at their age."

Marie laughed. "So was I. I am quite certain that I was the bane of my parents. And my poor sister..." She shook her head, recalling the many tragic moments she had with her sister. "It is surprising we survived each other's company. But marriage, it seems, separates families, scattering them to the four winds. It is rare that we see each other since she married Edward," she distantly mused, though her expression remained peaceful, serene. "But that is the way of things of things, is it not?

"Life seems so fleeting, so trivial that we mere mortals cannot even begin to understand its true meaning. It is a pity that many do not acknowledge that simple truth before it is too late," the empress continued with a sigh and looked considerately at Christine. "You seem lost in your own thoughts as well."

"It is nothing," Christine reassured her.

"Isn't it?" A dark brow arched in suspicion. "Nicky says the same thing, though he is not as convincing as you are," Marie stated with a furtive glance. "There are many facets to your character, Christine. But now that I think of it, you and your husband are an oddity among us, even if you do not realize it."

Christine paled as Marie dissected her like a decaying cadaver, inspecting the truth of what lay within the rotting flesh. The empress seemed to read Christine's thoughts with her dark obsidian eyes, as if seeing into her treacherous soul and knowing of the deception that festered within it.

But despite her inner vexations, Christine's expression remained nondescript, unfathomable. It was a pretense, of course, but one that worked its deceitful charm upon everyone who believed in her embellished fabrications of the truth. But would her deceptive art convince the empress as well? Inside, she believed that within time Marie would detect an irregularity in her words, putting the broken pieces of a disjointed puzzle back together.

Of course it was merely an irrational fear she had, conjured by a plausible outcome that would _never _happen. Erik assured her as much. And it was time, she realized, that she fully placed her faith—and life—in his hands, relinquishing any doubts or troubled fears that she had.

"Perhaps we are," Christine finally answered, masking her fears.

The empress smiled. "But that is what separates us, Christine. The Russian people have never been so captivated, so ardent in one thing since Catherine embellished the empire with her influence and Western ideologies. I also believe your coming here has influenced my children as well." Her face fell, revealing a hidden, secretive tension that was personified by a weary sigh.

"Is something wrong?" Christine was pressed to ask.

"Tell me, Christine. What did you think of my Nicky when you first met him?" Marie drew the question from the gauche tension between them.

Christine thought for a moment, her face a perfect illustration of silent study. She glanced at her gloved hands, then looked at the empress, the unsaid words reflecting within her eyes. "He was somber…like something had robbed him of any life that he once possessed." She stared plaintively at the empress, her eyes awash with tangible pity. "What happened to him?"

Marie's dark brows pursed together. "My son lost whatever innocence he had when his grandfather passed away." Her face became severe, distant. "The tsar was assassinated last winter. I am sure that you have heard about it. In any case, he was brought to the Winter Palace to die with his family by his side.

"I was ice-skating when it happened. One of the servants ushered me to the tsar's chamber where everyone hovered over him, all of their faces were grim, angered by what had happened. I did not have to ask whether he would survive or not, Sasha's forlorn expression confirmed my worst fears." Marie sighed heavily, as if trying to hold a small shred of dignity. "But it was nothing compared to my son's presence there. He watched as his grandfather took his final breath, dying on a set of bloodstained sheets. I have never seen such a horrid sight as the frozen expression upon my son's face…" A remorseful tear fell from an obsidian eye. "I honestly believed my son died with his grandfather died that day.

"Since then, I rarely see him laugh or smile." Marie's gaze turned pensive, thoughtful. "It surprised me to see him smile so freely today. I must thank you for that. I never realized that I could miss something so trivial as his smile."

"Of course, your—Marie," Christine was moved to say. "I am very sorry for your loss."

Marie wiped a cold tear away from a pale cheek. "You know, Christine. You are the first person to say that sincerely without being pressed to do so. I begin to wonder if you are truly who you present yourself to be…"

Dread clenched Christine's reserved heart as a thousand unnamed fears averted her gaze from the empress. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," Marie said simply. "It was merely an expression, nothing more." She dismissed Christine with a jaded hand. "Now go, my dear. Ready yourself for this evening. We have much to look forward to tomorrow."

Without any objection, Christine removed herself from the empress' dire presence, silently questioning whether or not Marie realized how close to the truth she actually was.

…

Dinner that evening seemed to pass by without any conception of time. Lords and ladies took their usual role in the pursuit of gaining the attention of the tsar's newly favoured couple. Christine played the role of an infatuated wife while Erik's cold resolve remained fixed upon those who dared to seek an audience with them. All night, he had remained by her side, as if silently assuring her that he would not abandon her to such a frivolous hell. Her only gratitude for this kind gesture was the ever-present smile she bore. And although it seemed false, it remained sincere all the same.

But as the night drew on, Christine found no happiness in the redundant sea of awed faces, no elation in the blissful murmurs about Erik and herself. In truth, she discovered that she no longer wished to be a part of it. It was strange how her desire to grace the world with her presence now became an unending nightmare. Erik should have warned her that too much praise would inevitably destroy her.

And even now as she watched him from her silent vigil on the bed, she found an odd sense of comfort that she was not completely alone. Their launch would be held the following night, and the collection of hours before their fatal introduction seemed to pass by with relentless cruelty.

Christine instantly dismissed her tenuous fears, focusing more upon Erik's rigid form. The oddity in his erect posture had always intrigued her. For instead of hovering over his work, he would always remain upright, vertical. Even when he played the lulling, seductive music on his organ, his composure never failed him. It seemed that his disfiguration only ended at his face, not affecting the rest of his frail form.

Erik remained oblivious to her silent study of his person as she felt a slight sense of awe for the simplistic actions that he artfully performed. His hand, ungloved, moved deftly over a large expanse of paper. The delicate curves and straight lines his hand created were perfect, flawless.

She remembered seeing a few architectural designs in his home. Whilst he was playing Mozart for her one evening, she freely observed the small but lavish study of his. A few yellowed, wrinkled designs of the Opéra were carelessly stacked under a pile of leather-bound books.

She recalled her astonishment when she learned that he also aided in the construction of the Opéra. She had no doubt that _Monsieur_ Garnier would have most likely depended upon Erik's ingenious talents. The man was an absolute prodigy. It was completely absurd that Erik would ever take an interest in her: a flawed, imperfect child who was barely legitimate in the ways of the world.

What possessed him to aid her when there were so many others more adept and better trained than she? Was it out of pity that he took her as his protégé, or for reasons more sinister? Erik's explanations of teaching her music were always vague. Sometimes she believed that she was nothing more than a living object to him, one that he could mold and build to perfection. One that he could not see as having flaws or was even relatively human.

Erik had always placed her as such. Why his reasons were, she did not know. But it was disturbing to think, or even consider that she was nothing more than a pretty lifeless object, an expensive trinket to display and carelessly flaunt to an ignorant multitude of unimpressed patrons. But even as his triumph was held in the sight all, Erik had inexorably taken away his success by abducting her. He would never realize, never know the damage he had wrought that ill-fated night…

Christine could still envision his infuriated words, his twisted face contorted into a mask of unrighteous anger. He had ripped away the hollow obstruction, revealing to her the inhuman rage that consumed his soul. It was apparent, even then, that he knew of her desire to leave him. Raoul's and the strange Persian's dark descent into Erik's subterranean lair had only fueled his hatred of her.

Would he _ever_ forgive her, seeing that she never intended to hurt him? It seemed hopeless even now to consider it. The damage seemed irreversible, permanent.

And then dismal her thoughts abruptly stopped, shifting away from that wretched night and ironically turning to something even more terrible:

_"What has he to hide from the rest of the world?"_

George's words continued to torment her. All evening, she had endured the transitory fear of revealing her concerns to Erik. He would be livid if he knew that another wished to see the monstrosity that he carefully concealed.

A tear then fell from a distraught eye. She could never tell Erik of what had transpired between her and the royal children. It would be unwise to provoke his anger further…

"Christine," Erik's virulent words shattered the tranquil ambiance between them. "You may stop this pretense. I know that you are fully awake."

Sable brows pursed together in utter confusion. "How did you—"

"You're incessant gaze has not shifted from me since we retired from the tsar's company." He turned to her, abandoning his hastily sketched designs. "What troubles you so?"

Unable to bear his probing stare, Christine timidly glanced at the wrinkled coverlet, wiping away the cold tear. "It is nothing, Erik. I am merely tired."

"Tired?" he echoed, incredulous. "You were with me all evening. Not once did you feign a headache or any other ailment that women strangely possess." His yellow eyes gleamed with suspicion of the solitary tear. "I will have the truth from you before this night is over."

Christine finally turned to him, defeated. "I fear what will come of tomorrow, and the days following it," she finally spoke, her evasive words heavy with dismay. "It is something vague, unclear. And it will not depart from my mind."

Erik glared at her, unmoved by her words. "You speak in riddles, Christine," he muttered acerbically. "Do not twist your words with me," his voice lowered ominously. "Why are you crying?"

She said nothing, and in return she received a growing irritation that initiated itself within Erik's callous stare. Tense minutes passed between them like careless granules of sand through an hourglass.

Throughout dinner, he had felt her disturbing gaze upon him, and also the same, trivial smile that he abhorred. Christine remained by his side, nodding to other guests and gently trading words with a foray of faceless souls, all witless to the poisonous beauty before them. She had tainted them with the simplistic chatter that was native to them.

He despised her close proximity, hated how she clung so desperately to him. It was as if she believed that her admirers would tear her away from him, robbing her of the only solace she knew of. He remembered the look of desperation upon her pale face when he escorted her to the main foyer. It was same expression that he had seen many times before.

But why did it seem so different now? There was a change in Christine; the inner vexation she had for his cruelty had strangely departed from her, leaving only fragments of hidden despair.

Nevertheless, her smile and appreciative glances did not go unmarked by him. Christine's sudden change was monumental, unanticipated. He fully expected her to hate him to the end. He _wanted_ her to hate him. What new madness possessed her naïve mind, making her believe in false aspirations? he wondered. Or was her fleeting appreciation nothing more than a ploy to escape him?

If it were the latter, then there would be hell to pay. He grew tired of her disturbing presence, despised how she lingered between his subconscious thoughts and reality. Always, he would think of her, the smile she freely gave him when she accepted his arm as he led her through a crowd of ever-watchful eyes. But of course it was nothing more than beautiful lie, contrived by their farce marriage.

And yet, it was a marriage that he accepted without question. If it were the only way to have Christine, making her suffer a lifetime with him, then he would endure her relentless insanity. He would indulge her madness by accepting the constant, fallacious human expressions that he once believed in.

Christine would never come to love him on her own free will.

And he could never find the means to return that false love.

Their marriage was one based on heaven and hell, where she, the beautiful seraph fell victim to his demonic voice, which had inescapably possessed her, tainting her with his unholy music. There would be no happy, blissful ending to their tragic story of love and betrayal. Angels and demons could never find a semblance of balance between their diverse worlds. And sadly, they, who were mere mortals yet so much more, would never fully reach an understanding. There would be no stalemate, no end to the dramatic war that was cruelly initiated the day they crossed paths.

They would be forever united, yet eternally apart.

It was a bitter irony, one in which Erik fully came to acknowledge. And so, he looked at her once more, staring at his lifeless creation, her dull eyes listless as she returned his stare. The beautiful ebony tendrils that now cascaded against her ashen flesh began to lull him to her side. And yet, his sanity intervened. He remained seated, adamant in his strength against her unvoiced plight.

Christine was truly beautiful when distraught, the ivory shift that covered her pale flesh was an unwelcome invitation. She seduced unseen angels with her artful despondency and tormented visible demons by enticing them with her infinite sadness.

Erik, however, was not swayed.

"Christine," his voice echoed without remorse. "I am waiting…"

The immobile creation turned to her master, her dull gaze settling disturbingly upon him. "My tears are no concern to you, Erik," her hollow voice faded into the darkness. "Why do you insist to torment me with something you care nothing for?"

Erik's hideous eyes raked over her wilting figure, understanding finally reaching the tawny depths. Christine's voice was guarded, shielding some unknown truth from him. "They _are_ a concern to me, Christine," he said after timeless deliberation. "I will not have a sobbing wife." His hellish gaze moved sharply over her flaccid form. "You would do well to remember that I abhor such weakness."

Weakness…

Christine reluctantly dismissed his spiteful censure. "The empress wishes me to meet her newest guests tomorrow evening before our launch into society," she muttered, silently praying that her answer would appease him.

"And that has upset you?" He looked at her, nonplussed. "That is a legitimate reason, my dear, but not the cause of your tears." His yellow eyes seared her flesh with silent derision. "No more evading, Christine; I desire the truth."

"Why?" she asked weakly, another barrier breaking from her battle-worn composure. "What does it matter, Erik?"

The expressionless mask questioned her, its mute inquisition unsettling. Finally, the voice behind the cracked obstruction spoke: "You are my wife, Christine," it replied with abject certainty. "You will keep no secrets from me. A dishonest wife displeasures her husband." Erik's words became meaningful, threatening. "You know this. Now tell me, _wife_. What is the true plight behind your tears?"

A look of utter loss tainted her face with damaged pride. "Will you promise me something, Erik?" Her azure eyes pleaded beyond the broken façade, innately giving in to his desire. "If I tell you, will you promise me that you will not be angry?"

"You know that I make no promises, Christine," he reminded her, the impassive mask mirroring his frozen words.

"I know." She looked away from him, defeated by his callous scrutiny. Her hands moved to cover her face, masking it. "I will tell you," she murmured dejectedly, not noticing her tormentor rise from his dark throne, his oppressive shadow lingering over her.

"Tell me, Christine," he seemed to whisper, his ominous presence shattering her remaining strength. "What is this secret you fear to share with me?" he posed, lightly tracing over her wayward curls.

Christine inwardly flinched at his gentle touch. "Erik," she murmured, her hands unwillingly falling away from her tearstained face.

An adulterous hand moved deeper into the dark mass, its inquisitive fingers probing the silken wisps of midnight. "Tell me, _mon_ _ange,_" his voice murmured into her ear. "Your fear will subside once you give in to me."

A weary sigh escaped her as she felt the skeletal digits question her afflicted mind. The icy touch of his flesh against her scalp released her hidden tension, concerns, and fears. Giving in to him now would cease this unending torment, and he would recede from his imposing stance, leaving her to her solace once more.

"Someone else has asked why you wear the mask," she admitted with utter remorse.

His dark ministrations on her hair stopped, his hand falling away from her. Christine watched him move to the window, his abrupt disinterest in her hair strangely upsetting her. A harsh silence ensued until he turned to her, the cold mask asking her one question: "Who?"

"It was…" Christine paused, debating whether or not to reveal the name.

"Christine," he prompted her. "You _will_ tell me."

"It was the grand duke," she muttered in a docile voice, her face beseeching his. "Erik, he only wanted to know why. Please, do not—"

"Did you tell him?" he interjected, unconcerned about her present worry.

Christine pulled herself away from the bedraggled sheets. Crossing over to Erik, she placed a confident hand on a glass pane. "No," she confessed, the truth revealed within her pale expression. "I would never—you must believe me, Erik. I never told him…" Her frown deepened. "I could never do that to you…"

"You did once…" Erik reflected with cold apathy. "And now you fear that I might exact revenge upon a child?" he questioned her. "Don't be simple, my dear. People will _always_ ask that question. It is inescapable. Why did you fear to tell me?"

"I did not wish to anger you," she sobbed.

Erik glared at his farce wife. "I would not be as foolish as to harm a child, especially one from the royal throne. Such actions would prove to be rather dire for us." An ungloved hand lifted her downcast chin, compelling her to look at him. "Now rest, Christine. Erase this unnecessary worry from you mind."

Before she could utter another word Erik turned away from her, returning to his abandoned designs. Inwardly disappointed, she obeyed him, claiming the neglected marriage bed once more for herself, and vaguely realized that her silent footfalls and the rustle of sheets confirmed his suspicions: she was yet again doing his will, submitting to his unholy desires.

She felt his crooked smile under the mask, the twisted grin pleased with her reluctant obedience. It was strange how she could captivate a room full of besotted fools yet could not hold a single argument with him. His reluctant captive turned wife was enigmatic, pleasing to him in a way. She silently wondered if their arrangement would prove the test of time.

It had to, for he would never let her go. Not even after death would she be free of him. And as she silently thought upon these disheartening conjectures, Erik hummed a silent, soothing melody to coerce her to sleep. Christine fought the lulling composition with a weakened front until she fell completely under its hypnotic spell, the promise of sleep freely given to her as she drifted into a comatose state; the last tangible memory she had before surrendering was the alluring sound of Erik's placating voice.

…

**Author's Note: Well, I suppose that is chapter nine—quite a long one, too. I honestly tried to cut it, but there were so many things that I could not leave out. Also, this will probably be the last time I will focus on Mina; she will silently go into the background of this story. I just needed to express her character one more time before doing so. As for the royal children, I hoped everyone liked them. They were fun to write about, and quite a challenge as well. But I found it to be somewhat important. It answers one question where there will always be speculation behind Erik's mask.**

**I also realize that this chapter might have been a little boring. I am very sorry about that. I know the plot of this story seems to be going absolutely nowhere. But in truth, it is. It is just taking me a long time to get there because there are two conflicts in this story: a minor one and a major one. The minor one has been alluded to in this chapter and will definitely be seen in the next. As for the major, it will also be introduced in the next chapter. After introducing them, I believe this story will go relatively fast. It is my hope, anyway. :)**

**With all of that said, I will continue onto the questions:**

**JenniferJ, Erik is very intelligent. But the man is also very stubborn. Um…I don't know if I will be giving away any spoilers or not by saying this but I believe that Christine's will and determination will begin to make his convictions in her alleged part in the assassination falter. He will be begin to question whether he is right or not in this story. It may be a while before it happens, though. I think he has a lot to sort out before forgiving her… Hopefully, it will not be too late:)**

**lauranonymous, Glad you like the story! To answer your question, the spelling of "czar" or "tsar" can go either way. I used to spell it "czar" but I found that I liked the other way better. It was something about the silent T. I think many native Russians spelled it with a T instead of a C. As for the rest of the Western world, I think spelling it with a C is more common. It's odd how countries will spell things so differently… **

**Loveroftrapdoors, You are right: Tori Amos is awesome! Unfortunately, I do not have any of her CDs right now. I may break and get one sometime. There are many bands that have inspired me to write this, mainly VAST and Evanescence. I will say that many gothic and rock bands have also added to the strange foray of inspiration that I have. It's odd... (Laughs.)**

**AleanShadow, thank you! If you ever want me to help you with a story, let me know. I would be honoured to help or make any suggestions for it:)**

**Venus725, Thanks, I am happy you like the story! And no, I haven't seen the film yet. I plan to rent it when it comes out so I can cry and rant in the privacy of my own home without people sending me to a mental institution for a display of public insanity… I wouldn't put it past anybody. :) (Grins.)**

**Also, one more note. Everyone, please do not think I am bashing the film. I seriouslyam not. I just wanted to see the siren and Erik drown someone… I will watch it with an open mind, and Ican also cry without people thinking I am crazy because I know that Erik will not have Christine in the end. (Sniffs.) I am sure it's great. I've seen screenshots/pictures and it does look good, so I will see it. And gladly, too!**

**Everyone, thank you so much again for the reviews, comments, questions, opinions, e-mails, and everything I have received thus far! Truly, all of you are one of the main reasons why I try to write and post this! And also, I am deeply considering on writing a short one-shot story that is somewhat of a prequel to this as an appreciation for all of you taking the time read this! I really want to thank all of you in some way. :)**


	11. Chapter Ten: Fall from the Angel's Grace

Disclaimer: I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Ten.

_Skeletal hands moved with an unknown purpose through midnight strands of ebony, which curled into the darker reaches of oblivion. The emaciated digits, though ghastly in appearance, traced the silken tendrils with a flawless grace that only deficient mortal souls could envy. For they possessed the nebulous mass, consumed it with an ardent passion that placed tragic, memorable acts of love and selflessness to eternal shame._

_Death's possessive touch had once again seared his captive's soul._

_The ingenious fingers shifted a fraction within her hair, gaining a more possessive hold upon it. She swayed against him, relinquishing her soul once again to him. Every time he touched her, bespoke her name she conceded, giving in to his darkness. It was difficult to defy such inexorable ecstasy. And it seemed that no one, not even her persistent faith in an all-forgiving deity could encourage her to abstain from such an errant desire…_

Christine reluctantly pulled herself away from the fatal vision, dispelling the madness her thoughts overtly welcomed. The dream—nightmare—would not shift from her mind, for it plagued her with the unwelcome possibility of what these fragmented images truly represented.

It was like falling into a listless sway of crude manipulation and utter possession, where she could no longer differentiate between them; the colours representing each nature blended into a confusing shade of merciless grey.

Her head ached from the faded mantra of sounds that accompanied her dream from the previous night. The incessant sound of Erik's unearthly voice lingered within the maddened cacophony, causing her dark brows to purse together in irritation.

What did these blurred images mean? True, her dreams were nothing more than memories and thoughts fused together, becoming nothing of true significance to her life. The broken likeness of her father, along with a slew of other thoughts and aspirations, were quite common. She was not a prophet, nor a mystic who could see into the unknown. Such abilities were considered wrong, aberrant in the eyes of those who were allegedly justified in their righteous beliefs.

And yet, she could not refrain from the disturbing mental image that had tormented her thoughts all morning. The previous night had left her in sad disarray as she fought the heavy throws of a harsh slumber, even the faint memory of Erik's lulling voice could not dispel her inner strife; his cold, possessive touch had left quite an impact upon her.

Nevertheless, how could such a trite and careless act govern her thoughts and dreams with such fervor? She had no answer for it, nor could she find a reason as to why she felt such unease. Lately, she had be unable recognize herself. Even though her physical being remained the same, she felt a slight change within her, one she could not place, or even begin to understand. In truth, it frightened her.

But despite her sudden realization of fear, she did not wish to consider these distressing visions. Not now. Facing the throng of women before her was enough to incite any dread she had. Marie's proposal for one final introduction before the launch had been an unwelcome invitation to another interrogation. And yet, she had reluctantly accepted it, she thought bitterly, as she had since she adopted the mantle of a married woman.

Dismissing her conflicted thoughts Christine turned her attention to Marie and the tawdry sea of intrigued faces.

"Ladies, please remember yourselves," Marie's regal voice penetrated the jumbled mass of loquacious tongues. Slightly smiling at their obedience Marie glanced at Christine, giving her a wordless nod in acknowledgement, then returned her apathetic stare to the silent congregation.

"As all of you know, the terrible tragedy on our borders has left many to grieve. It is by God's will that a few were fortunate to survive such adversity. We must all be grateful for such blessings and never question them," Marie's emphatic tone weighed heavily upon them, their faces devoid of disbelief. Seeing this, she finally smiled, her imperious hand extended partially as she spoke: "And now, I am pleased to introduce all of you to one of our most esteemed and honoured guests, _Madam_ Christine de Maricourt."

A mass of inquisitive eyes moved from the empress to the woman beside of her. They regarded the frail, stationary figure with harsh scrutiny; each gaze incredulous of what was presented before it. However, despite whatever reservations many may have had, all within the room broke into a dramatic obeisance, shrewdly recognizing their levels of status against the listless de Maricourt.

But regardless of this breach most disregarded such trite strictures, being captivated by the striking presence the empress' guest maintained. A row of questions began, streaming throughout the room as each unnamed lady made herself known to the silent Christine.

Christine bowed in turn, acknowledging each name and committing it to memory. She did this without hesitance, proving her ability to properly hold a decent hand at etiquette. For the most part, she obtained a certain respect from most, regardless of her lack of title.

The evening went without fault as questions and comments inundated the white drawing room. And Marie, of course, could be counted upon when a few inquiries bordered upon being too personal answer. One incident, in particular, stayed freshly within Christine's mind.

_"Please, you must tell us about your life. Not just your ordeal—but everything," a flighty debutante in a garish orange gown had suddenly spoke, her face awash with undimmed interest. _

_"Everything?" Marie had answered for her. "My dear, if we have her recount her entire life, we would be here for days," she gently chided the witless girl. She then gave her a considerate glance. "I am sure _Madam_ de Maricourt would not wish to impart everything, at this moment."_

_A slight flush had pervaded Christine's cheeks, and she mentally thanked the empress for subtly warning the inquisitive lady to withdraw from her vulgar curiosity. Others also seemed to acknowledge the empress' irritation, commenting no further._

Thinking upon this, an inaudible sigh escaped Christine, the impenetrable barriers within her mind relenting from the idle barrage of questions. A cold silence now saturated the room with an edgy pause, leaving many of its occupants unnerved, waiting for a brave soul to break the hallowed silence.

"_Madam_ de Maricourt," a new voice broke through the coagulated stillness as fervent whispers followed its strident call.

"Yes?" Christine asked, her vibrant eyes trying to find the face of her addresser.

The hushed whispers of the women ceased when they parted ways for the faceless voice to come forth. Silence ensued as a woman impudently stepped forward, revealing her face at last.

A few gasps of utter surprise broke through the magnetic tension; the woman's presence harbouring a bittersweet poison for the empress' newly-favoured guest. Wisps of dark-red hair were swept up in a Grecian knot as black Tahitian pearls were intricately laced through the auburn coils. An emerald gown contrasted the other ladies' preference of chaste whites and safe pastels, as did the abnormal darkness in her flesh tones.

Christine felt insignificant in the presence of this woman, callous blue eyes meeting hers; the acidic hatred that burned within their oceanic depths seared the object their gorgon's gaze fell upon. Christine's flesh burned from the wordless censure, causing her to take a cautious step away from the spiteful Medusa.

The gorgon, however, was unaffected by her prey's withdrawal. Stepping forward, she said in a shrill voice, "The rumours exceed you, _madam_. You are truly captivating." She gave a careless glance to the other gaping women. "Is she not?" she asked them with mock curiosity. She grinned when most nodded with a barren expression. "Indeed. You _are_ beautiful—almost incomparable to every woman in this room."

"Would you care to introduce yourself, _mademoiselle_? Or have you forgotten how?" Marie's blithe question lightened the tension in the room. However, it too, was subtly laced with bitter annoyance.

"Forgive me, your highness." The gorgon descended into a mocking bow. "It appears that my awe for the lovely _Madam_ de Maricourt has preceded my manners." Her vain eyes shifted, falling upon Christine. "I am _Lady_ Ekaterina Alessandrov-Rosellini."

Christine inwardly flinched at the name. So this was the lady the tsarevich and his brother spoke so gravely of. It seemed that their opinions were not unfounded; the brooding woman did indeed have a dislikable air to her.

Lady Ekaterina stared at Christine, her meaning all too clear: her title was recognized and would always come before the simple identity of _'madam'_. To this virulent woman, she would never be anything more than a commoner to _any_ of these extravagant ladies.

A burgeoning irritation rose within Christine's soul. It was a pity she could not surpass the status of an untitled woman. But the decency of being a simple wife truly rivaled the noble bloodline of a patrician lady, rightfully setting it below its overstated position. It no longer mattered that she would never have the same distinction or opportunities as those born of noble blood. She was content enough to be who she was…

"It is a pleasure, my lady," Christine finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Indeed," Ekaterina rejoined smoothly. She paused, albeit briefly, as if considering her next line of questioning. A devious grin manifested itself upon her painted lips, her blue eyes gleaming with unprecedented delight. "How long will you be staying in Russia, _madam_? I could introduce you to the court. I know many of whom would wish to make your acquaintance."

"My lady, you are very kind," Christine whispered faintly as dread overcame her dignity. The Lady Ekaterina's offer, though kind, held only the illusion of amity. It would be unwise to accept such an offer when pain of humiliation would be inevitable.

"A very kind offer, Ekaterina, but your services will not be needed," Marie interrupted, casting aside the courtesy of addressing the lady properly. "I will personally introduce _Madam_ de Maricourt to the Russian court."

Ekaterina's ladylike frame became rigid as the animosity between she and the empress seethed within condensed crowd. Marie's harsh disregard for the petty offer given made her other guests pull away from the scene, having no desire to be a part of it.

A fleeting moment passed, leaving them to stand frozen in a second of unspoken conflict. Time ceased as the harsh silence ensued between them. The still disquiet seemed to percolate, saturating the air with static unease.

It was then, after the stillness drifted into the hollows of the drawing room Ekaterina spoke: "As your highness wishes." She bowed once more, and then receded into the crowd, losing herself amongst the horde of ardent faces.

Looking away from the sea of blank stares Marie nodded for Christine to follow her as she clapped her hands in a reproving gesture. "Ladies," she interjected, disrupting the absurd silence. "I believe it is time to depart and dress for this evening's festivities," she commanded as she dismissed them.

Christine lingered behind the empress, the massive crowd before her dispersing into a heady cluster of broken whispers and a rustling of skirts. The high-pitched voices of a few in the front of the uneven line could be heard; the general topic of the latest fashions became an ongoing foray of tedious reminders on Christine's part. She idly wondered if clothing, men, and gossip were the only things that interested these bland women.

Unlike Marie, most of the ladies she met today and from the previous evening were less than what she had hoped for. One such lady had the audacity to ask her the latest fashion in the Venetian circles. Another asked what she favoured more: a corset comprised of common lace or one accented with jewels and pearls. To Christine, she found most of these alleged ladies rather off-putting.

It was unfortunate, on her part, that she could not claim a headache and quit the voracious inquiry. She hated to bear the brunt of the conversation by answering personal questions in which she could not feign ignorance, some of which were too personal, too private that no one, not even Mamma Valérius knew of.

And with such personal questions she had to alter some of the truth, fabricating and omitting certain parts of her life. Instead of mentioning that she traveled with her father from fair to fair she merely said that they had settled into a comfortable house in Paris after her mother had passed away. She spoke very little of her life after that, refusing to mention her time on the Opéra's illustrious stage.

She held the attention of many with her congenial interests. However, her retreat to safer areas in her life was inevitably disturbed by an onslaught of new questions, most relating to how she met Erik. The question itself struck her, leaving her speechless. And it was by Providence that Marie answered the question for her. The empress prattled on about how Christine met her husband in the lavishly lit halls of the Opéra Populaire, relating the facts by her own sweet fabrications, and adding a touch of romance to the story.

But despite the deceptive veil over the actual truth, Marie's version mesmerized the court, captivating them beyond all rationality. A few debutantes sighed from the prospect of true love, while their mothers looked on, uninterested in hearing such drivel. And strangely a few ladies gave Christine knowing smiles, as if they understood her remarkable story all too well…

But despite this discomforting knowledge, Christine's torment receded, leaving her to stand-alone with the empress. Marie glanced at the empty hall, her face vacant of delight. In truth, she looked tired, weary, as if the ladies' meeting had dissolved her of her strength and her infamous vitality.

Christine could no longer see the blissful, jubilant expression that crested itself upon Marie's delicate face. The vivid curiosity that had once embellished her eyes was now faded, almost empty of the vivacious luster that usually stirred within them. Overall, the empress seemed like a poor substitute for the lady that governed the Gatchina household.

It was then that she noticed Marie's irregular posture; her blanched face a telltale sign of collapsing. Christine was immediately at the empress' side, her troubled hands clasping onto a royal arm. "Your highness, are you all right?" Christine's pliant gaze exposed palpable concern.

Marie placed her free hand to the side of her face, holding it there as if in agony. Her dark eyes stared at Christine through heavy lids. "I am fine," she muttered with a weakened voice. "I have a small headache."

"A small headache," Christine's incredulous voice echoed. "Your highness, you look as if you are about to faint."

The empress gave her guest a mollifying look. "It's very common for one in my condition to expect such moments of weakness." Her eyes moved to her abdomen, a furtive smile playing weakly upon her lips. "I will be fine if I sit down for a moment." A semblance of life returned to her eyes, giving her the strength to speak. "If you would be so kind as to escort me to the drawing room, I would greatly appreciate it."

Christine could only incline her head, silently agreeing to Marie's suggestion. She felt Marie shift her weight, trying to even her balance as she walked; a sense of strength gained by every step.

Her concern for the empress was replaced with an allaying certainty, her worries scattered to the corners of her over-indulgent mind. "You will be all right?" she asked.

"Of course I will be, my dear." The empress grinned. "How could I not when I am expected to head this evening's ceremony with my Sasha? I cannot leave him to do it alone." She laughed merrily at her words. "Besides, I believe you would like nothing more than for me to subdue a possible inquisition."

"Was my desire so obvious?" Christine frowned.

"People are too inquisitive, Christine. And at times, that can intrude upon any respect they may have for another person." Marie sighed, her gentle words placating Christine's distress. "You shall witness a lot of that here, and almost anywhere you go in this world. However, I will not allow anyone here to offend you or your husband." Her dark eyes obliged Christine to believe her words. "You are my guests. And as such, no one—not even Lady Ekaterina—will discomfort you. That, I promise you."

Silence moved in place after Marie's words, leaving the two ladies in an unspoken truce of friendship. It was in that moment that Christine found a deep respect for the empress, casting aside all suspicions that she could be a threat to her or Erik.

Marie's serious visage melded to one of weariness. Massaging the sharp ache in her temples she urged for Christine to depart. "Now off with you. You will be of no more help to me, for you have done enough already." A ghostly smile entreated Christine. "There is a valet stationed at the end of the hall. Have him escort you to my husband's study. Alexander and your husband will be there," she said with certainty. "Enjoy the rest of the day. I will see you this evening."

Christine inclined her head with a regal nod, bowing as she did so. "Until this evening, your highness," she whispered as she gently closed the massive double doors behind her.

…

"Do you suppose we could secure the battlements, here?" Alexander asked, pointing to an aged blueprint of the palace.

Erik studied it with a critical eye. "This outline…" he muttered, looking at the faded design. His eyes scrutinized the aged drawing, a harsh silence following his crude examination. After a moment's deliberation, he pulled another blueprint from a heavy mound of ancient papers. His yellow eyes raked over the ancient paper, considering every detail of the design. His analytical gaze then shifted to Alexander.

"It will be difficult, but not impossible," he assured the tsar.

Relief suffused Alexander's harsh features. "Then you presume that we could begin soon? Next week, perhaps?"

"I will need to make a new design," Erik reminded him. "These blueprints have faded and decayed over the years. It will be difficult to use them for any reconstruction."

Alexander nodded, considering Erik's words. "You are right in that respect." He sighed, a hint of frustration in his rigid posture. "The former architects preferred graphite over ink, and the servants who were charged to place these designs in a desiccated place, did not—much to my dismay."

Erik said nothing to Alexander's complaint. Inwardly, he was amused by the stupidity of people. Whether it was because of the architects' sheer idiocy or the servants' neglect, he did not know. But the problem of repairing the palace now lay within his hands, and he would have to compensate for a misdeed done a century before.

It would be a vexing trial, but one certainly of interest. And oddly, it felt refreshing to build more than just ordinary houses in ordinary towns. The tsar would also desire a few hidden secrets to this grand foundation. However, Erik doubted that he would be commissioned to construct another maze of mirrors or a secreted level of veritable torture chambers. The tsar did not strike him as a sadistic man, pleasuring himself in the art of torture.

And as such, he highly doubted that his newfound employer would deliver his life to an executioner after his services were no longer needed. Of course…it was not the first time a tsar murdered an architect, for fear of secrets being revealed. The poor fool who had constructed the church in the Red Square had unfortunately fallen victim to a similar fate that he was once condemned to.

Christine was the other reason for his certainty. She had successfully deceived everyone of noble blood within the palace. Even the empress doted upon her. Her mask of innocence concealed any hint of suspicion while the court believed her, accepting her words without question. In another life, he would have applauded her deceptions. In another life…

Bitterness replaced his momentary delight as he considered his reasons for being here. Without Christine, he would have lingered within the cellars of the Opéra, cold and alone, not savouring the life that he was once denied. He foolishly believed that she was the answer to that glorious illusion. He wanted to believe it, yearned to believe it. But needless to say, his expectations fell short of the reverent angel he had once envisioned to be his saviour.

Christine had undeniably failed him.

And sadly, he, too, would fail her.

The poor girl believed she could change him, make him recant his sins and set aside his murderous ways. He realized that she, although foolish, did stay with him when she had the opportunity to escape. It was only out of guilt that she remained by his side. And it was that guilt which had condemned her.

Poor, foolish Christine…

She would have had his heart until the ending of the world, and even beyond that had she not betrayed him. And now, she was lost to him—forever. Even now, he felt a slight touch of remorse for everything that had transpired between them. Had he taken her away before that tragic night… Had he killed the vicomte the night when he was at the estate… Had he…

It was pointless to consider what could never be.

Christine would remain in the role as his wife here and also after leaving the tsar's court. The revenge he had once hastily constructed had melded into one of an elaborate design. Ah, yes, Christine would have a husband, but not one she had greedily anticipated.

He could live with the one whom he once loved but now despised. And strangely, he believed Christine's feelings were mutual, almost reciprocated by her desire to share her life with—

"Ah, _Madam_ de Maricourt," the tsar's booming voice shattered Erik's thoughts. "Do come in and join us," he implored her with a welcoming gesture.

"Your highness," Christine intoned reverently, her small frame shifting into a graceful obeisance.

Alexander took her hand, leading her to Erik's side. "You are very lovely this afternoon, _madam_," he complimented her with an appreciative smile. "I do hope my Minnie did not tire you with the other ladies."

"Oh, no, your highness," Christine said merrily. "I enjoyed the afternoon luncheon with her majesty. It was very interesting."

Her light words made Alexander retaliate with laughter. "Interesting for you, perhaps. The conversation of ladies is a bit dull for my tastes, _madam_. I would rather retreat to my study and speak more of…practical topics—"

"Such as conquering the whole of the world? Or just Europe?" A dark brow arched with hidden amusement.

Alexander feigned surprise. "Why, _Madam_ de Maricourt, I never realized that you would take an interest in what we men find amusing." His smile widened. "And sadly, I only plan to conquer those barbaric traitors to the throne—for now." He chuckled, looking at Erik. "Your wife is charming, Erik. Intelligence and a wonderful sense of humour combined!" He bowed to her. "_Bravo_, _madam_!"

She mirrored his bow. "Your highness."

Christine and Alexander spoke briefly over the expansion of the new world. Both laughed heartily, agreeing upon the ridiculous and dramatic changes in science and industry. However, Erik was not amused by this pleasant display of familiarity. He did not appreciate Christine's warmth to the tsar; the tangibility of her words and gentle smile seemed all too real.

"Christine, I believe you should return and change for this evening," Erik interrupted their comfortable discourse.

"Of course, Erik." She paused, her smile diminishing from her face. "It was a pleasure—"

"No, the pleasure is mine, _madam_," Alexander broke in. "Feel free to interrupt your husband and me when you feel the need. I could use a bit of humour every now and again. And as for you, Erik…" He turned to face the man in question. "Go with your wife and enjoy the rest of the evening. We are finished for today, and can continue tomorrow."

Erik remained silent for a moment, considering the tsar's subtle dismissal. "As you wish. However, I will look over the battlements, personally. And will be able to see what actually needs to be done." Seeing Alexander nod in consent he bowed to him, then reached for Christine's hand. "Come, my dear," he murmured, guiding her away from the study and also from Alexander's inquisitive eye.

Their flight from the Alexander's study left Christine to trail blindly after Erik. She stumbled at his fast-paced gait as he led her down the hall. "Erik, please," she whispered, but he did not turn to answer her. She sighed, dismayed by her futile attempt to delay him.

When they reached the secluded body of the north corridor Erik released the possessive grip on her hand. He watched Christine turn to him, silently glancing at him. He looked away from her inquiring eyes, but could not ignore their potent stare. "What is it?" he finally asked, reluctantly turning to look at her. "What do you find so amusing?"

"Tonight," she began, looking avidly at the banners and decorations that bespoke of their inauguration into Russian society. "It is so difficult to believe that all of _this_"—Her hands parted, gesturing to the expansive majesty of the hall—"is only for us, Erik."

He stopped in the middle of the hall, truly bemused by her words. "And that was what caught your interest?" He chuckled deeply, crudely rebuffing her.

"Of course it is." Her dark brows creased together in a delicate frown. "You find it childish of me to be intrigued by all of this," she muttered unhappily.

"Keep your voice down," he reprimanded her.

But Christine would not be swayed. Unquenchable hurt and anger seethed within her eyes from his wounding remark. "Am I not right?" she questioned, inwardly provoking him to prove her wrong.

"No, you are not, Christine," he said after a long moment, not realizing that he found his words undeniably true. "It is not childish of you. Anyone would find it amusing." His hand tightened around hers, giving her the physical security she needed. "Now, tell me of your day."

Christine glanced at their joined hands, then to his face. She looked beyond the ominous eye slits of the mask, seeing his eyes molder with an unknown, intangible emotion. She felt herself sink into the yellow depths, drowning within their unyielding gaze.

"I enjoyed today," she finally said. "And you?"

A puckish grin was concealed under his expressionless mask. "If you come to the battlements with me, perhaps I will tell you."

…

The warm daylight hours passed as the dark shadow of twilight enveloped the sky with its ebony cloak, filling the heavens with a coverlet of stars. The stability of time seemed to surge through unending currents and channels, always moving forward, leaving the past behind. To Christine, it seemed as if only seconds had passed by.

She could still feel the touch of Erik's hand; hear his gentle words whispered into the approaching twilight. He had subtly captured her, taking her to the palace's battlements. And yet, she went willingly, without hesitation.

Her curiosity of his enigmatic words coerced her to oblige him this private walk. Silence had at first dominated the conversation until she had the audacity to break it. Erik did not disappoint her with his answers to her questions.

He spoke so softly, earnestly. It was difficult to remember that they were allegedly bitter enemies. But as much as she wished for the walk to last, it eventually ended with the toll of the hour. The massive bell rang out the hour of seven, leaving all to prepare for the approaching revelry. Erik had amicably led her to her room, informing her that he would wait outside.

Christine almost asked if he wished for a new change of clothes but thought better of it. She did not wish to see their pleasant exchange fall into another argument. It was enough to have one once a day. Besides, she could not remove the strange tingling within the palm of her hand—where Erik's had conveniently been only a few minutes before.

The time spent in preparation had also taken a toll on her, for she suffered through the coarse exchange of clothes as Mina perfected her image in the vanity mirror. The maid had worked effortlessly with the time given to her, her deft hands working miracles on the mass of wayward curls and tangled strings of hair.

Even now as she sat within the immense ballroom, cloaked in an immaculate white gown she still felt bare, exposing her true self to all. Christine cautiously graced her hair with timid fingers, feeling the portion that was weaved into a black crown and adorned with dark ivory pearls.

She was a vision, Mina had told her.

But was she? Christine could only wonder the validity of the girl's words.

With that thought in mind, something else began to trouble her. She recalled disquiet within the maid's voice and actions, like something had possessed her thoughts. Mina masked her trepidation, of course. But the fact that her apprehension still remained potent unnerved Christine. It was as if Mina had something important on her mind that she could not reveal to anyone, not even to her mistress.

Christine dwelled on the slight possibility, but quickly discounted it as she turned her attention to the tsar and his faithful subjects.

"Everyone, I am proud to at last present our most valued guests of honour to our court. They have traversed the wilds our beloved country, facing all adversity and hardship. Give most humble and esteemed welcome to our guests, _Monsieur_ Erik de Maricourt and his lovely wife Christine," Alexander's regal voice echoed within the dining all.

One by one, lords and ladies streamed in through the arched threshold, each face beaming with delight and avid interest. Alexander received them, and then fobbed them off for his wife to welcome.

Throughout the course of introductions Christine's tension increased, a foreboding feeling of dread touching the apex of her mind. She received many more people than she had the previous evening. And inevitably, she and Erik still remained the center of attention.

Dinner was also a taxing trial for her. Instead of being seated beside of Erik, she was placed across from him. Deep inside she longed for the close proximity of being near him—to have him hold her hand as he silently reassured her.

But to her discontent she was seated near the front of the table, for all to see. The tsar and Marie were two seats away from her, the honour of being near them maintained by the position of her seat. And as such, she was placed between the Descanov brothers, who retained a deep admiration of the tsar and his family. Alexei spoke warmly to her while Graf merely gave her an acknowledging glance, his attention elsewhere.

Christine noticed the distant look on the elder brother's features, the long condescending stare he gave to the wall before him unnerved her. The young lord seemed more impressed with the crown molding than with the slew of ladies beside of him. And inwardly, Christine doubted that his intense stare was for the wall. Perhaps his idle gaze was meant for something worse, something far more sinister.

Then again, she could be drawing false conclusions. It would not be the first time that she believed in something that was not actually there…

A bout of laughter interrupted her passive thoughts, compelling her to turn and see the outlandish uproar. Her surprise waned as she noticed a familiar face entangled within a mass of others.

Lady Ekaterina laughed at something another lady had said, her malevolent eyes fixed upon Christine. Cruelty could be found within the light timbre of her voice as she whispered something in the ear of the woman beside of her. Whatever it was did not reach beyond its intended target, however.

It was of little significance to Christine, for she had endured the cold rumours uttered behind her back at the Opéra. The childish spite, which could be found here was too redundant and of little concern to her. The Lady Ekaterina could spread her poison to untainted ears if she so desired. The outcome, though, would only give her a moment's pleasure of razing one to the ground before the harsh hammer stroke fell upon the unsuspecting fool.

Another hour had passed as Christine ignored the tangled cacophony of words and sounds composed by the mindless gentry. It was the same distorted chatter from the previous evening, only this time it was heightened by the magnanimous presence of one greatly anticipated. The name of the soul in question, however, was lost to Christine, as if it was intentionally murmured too quietly for her to hear.

Her brief curiosity for the unknown visitor quickly dissipated when Alexei invoked another witty and comical conversation with her. Christine had expected Erik to step in and place a personal comment but he did not. Instead, he partially ignored their conversation; only subtly staring at her through the mask's porcelain eye slits, his golden eyes unreadable.

The urge to ask why he stared at her in such a manner seared her tongue, leaving her speechless and reluctant to utter her question. His austere stare lingered within her mind, silently reminding her of the abstract oddity that consumed him.

Like his _Don Juan Triumphant_, Erik both burned and consumed anything within his path, and even she fell silent to his siren's call. And yet, she felt no need to escape from the fires that tormented her. She could not understand, nor find the reason why she desired to remain in this hellish prison, for nothing made sense to her anymore. And oddly, she found no desire to question such intriguing insanity.

The booming voice of the tsar ended her maddening thoughts as he raised a glass to toast his guests for attending this evening. The clattering of crystal champagne glasses resonated within the massive dining hall, leaving a pristine impression upon those who listened to its melodic sound.

After the given respect to the royal household had expired, the guests resumed private conversations amongst themselves, forfeiting everything but the lurid gossip projected to them.

Christine remained quietly within her seat, idly moving a stem of asparagus with her fork. Her eyes were fixated on the plate before her, not noticing the gathering of curious stares.

"Christine," Erik whispered quietly.

She looked up at him, slightly flushing from his acknowledgement. "Yes, Erik?" she asked, her brilliant blue eyes widening with concern.

Erik stared at the innocent expression upon his captive's face; her unintentional folly was almost amusing. "You are holding your fork incorrectly," he informed her quietly. "And you are also gathering attention. Put it down."

Her mouth slightly opened to reason with him; but closed it, finding it better not to argue and make a scene. Christine complied, setting the fork aside, her attention fully on her guardian. "Then what should I do?" her muted words questioned.

"Nothing," he scolded her, almost inaudibly. "Sit there and do not speak unless someone encourages you to."

His final words registered a growing spite for the laws of convention. All around, other women talked, laughing heartily at the words of another. Gentlemen joined in, adding their personal thoughts to the open conversation. And despite such open freedom, she was restricted to hold the silence of a nun.

"_Madam_ de Maricourt," Alexei finally addressed her, a hint of amusement within his solitary eye. "Would you care to tell this fine gentleman beside of me that Parisian society has infected the whole of Europe with its laws and strictures in fashion and politics?"

Utter bafflement permeated Christine's flawless features. "My lord, I would not know where to begin."

Alexei grinned, but refused to be swayed by her diffident words. "Oh, come now. Surely you find that your country has most certainly influenced mine." He laughed. "We speak French. Why we even stay with the latest fashions, which are derived from France!" He smiled at her brilliant confusion and turned to his companion, a smug grin proving his point. "See, even _Madam_ de Maricourt agrees with me!"

"And what fool would agree with you, Alexei?" a new voice broke into the conversation.

Christine watched the grin fade from Alexei's warm features. Rigidly, he glanced at the woman who interrupted his merriment. A desolate blue eye burned with icy fire as he addressed her: "Apparently a wise fool who knows not interrupt the conversations of others," he rejoined coldly. "Please feel free to use that advice in the future, Ekaterina."

Cold eyes seethed with visible fury. Ekaterina said nothing more to Alexei, her insidious gaze moved to Christine. A light smile touched her garish lips. "_Madam_ de Maricourt." She nodded with false reverence.

"My lady," Christine returned with forced civility.

Seeing the slight tremble in Christine's hand, Alexei skillfully turned the stilted exchange onto himself. "_Madam_, if you would please concern yourself with a question of mine, I would greatly appreciate it."

The faint hint of a smile at the corner of her pale lips confirmed Alexei of her unease with the Lady Ekaterina. Boldly, he turned his back on the viperous woman, giving Christine a considerate smile, as if saying that he fully understood her discomfort.

"My mind has been curious as of late," he began mildly. "You have quite an eye for the arts. I've noticed your interest in the stories I tell, and you also have a lovely voice. Now tell me if I am not mistaken, but do you write poetry or sing?"

Christine flushed at his remark, her eyes moving to the table in acute embarrassment.

"Please," he entreated her. "Indulge me this one request. I will die of curiosity if you do not relieve me of it."

With a sigh of defeat Christine glanced up from the safety of the table, her eyes filled with jollity. "I could not write a poem if I tried, my lord. But I used to sing as a child."

"Truly?" His blue eye brightened with interest. "Do you still—"

"Your royal highness," Ekaterina's unrefined voice shattered all polite conversation.

All eyes turned to the strident voice, Alexander dully following his guests' suit. A foray of hushed whispers pervaded the room as the tsar looked upon his addresser.

"Lady Ekaterina," he stated blandly. "What do I owe the honour?"

Ekaterina glanced at Christine; a slow, derisive smile was etched upon her painted lips. Her blue eyes then turned to the tsar, mutely imploring him to listen. "It appears that our favoured guest of honour has a talent, your highness."

"Oh? And what might that be, lady?" he humoured the bothersome girl.

Ekaterina ignored his visible disinterest. "Why, your highness, it seems that _Madam_ de Maricourt has a talent for singing. From what I understand, she has the voice of an angel."

Alexander's disinterest quickly melded into one of intrigue. Abruptly he turned to Christine, his kind blue eyes regarding her with interest. "Is this true, _madam_?"

Christine could only nod, as her hollow eyes stared vacantly at him.

"Excellent. Would you care to sing for us? I would greatly appreciate your marvelous talents at my court."

"Alexander dear," Marie interjected. "Perhaps she may not wish to"—Her voice decreased several levels—"in front of everyone."

"Oh, come now, dear." Alexander waved off his wife's concern, his attention returning to Christine. "Would you, _madam_? That is, if you would care to?"

"Of course she will," Erik answered for her, his voice indifferent.

Christine's hollow eyes moved from the tsar to the man that had uttered her death sentence. Erik remained in his seat, rigid and unmoving, his eyes fixed solely upon her. Inside, she felt betrayed by him, the life that once stirred within her burned out, its ashes spread over her cold pale flesh.

She read the message within the yellow orbs and faintly ascended from her seat. A stifled breath escaped her as she moved away from the high-backed chair, her posture straight, narrow, and perfect.

All eyes were set upon her radiant figure, the avid perplexity in each critical gaze measuring her self-worth. Her hands were clasped delicately in front of her, as if calming the torrent of dread within her soul.

It was then she looked away from her captor and the intrigued stares of her unwanted audience, casting aside the burning hatred that numbed her heart. "What would have me sing, your highness?" her voice resonated without warmth.

If the tsar could feel her discontent, then he chose to ignore it. "Can you sing something operatic? Like a part from _Romeo and Juliet_?"

The young prima donna considered his words. A faint memory crossed the harrowed depths of her mind. Vaguely she recalled the words for the part of the tragic heroine, for she had once uttered them in another life.

"Yes, your highness," she finally spoke. "I am quite familiar with the part of Juliet."

"Then would you please sing for us? Choose any place in the opera you desire; I know every word."

Surprise stirred within her. It was odd to see a man so masculine and Herculean in appearance to have an interest in the arts, especially for one in opera. But despite her remote disbelief, she set it aside, ready to do his bidding.

Her mouth opened slightly, adjusting itself from its long disuse. Her voice began in the center of her throat, humming the beginning to Juliet's somber opening. The sound within her throat rose to a magnificent degree, finally escaping her and allowing the world to hear its haunting melody.

Christine could not control the beautiful yet mystifying instrument that she once prized above all else. She felt the power behind it control her, possess in a way that only she could understand. No one else in the room could feel or even appreciate the sheer magnitude that drove itself behind her voice. It was an unearthly power unleashed by the arcane being before her. And Christine knew far too well that Erik was silently critiquing her work.

The faded memories of their past sessions inundated her thoughts, forcing her to remain in a conflicted juxtaposition of time and space, for as her voice conveyed sound in the present, her mind inevitably lingered in the past.

She recalled her first session with her angel of music, remembering her intrigue by the sound of his voice. Sheer ecstasy burned within her from each uttered syllable. She felt true elation as the ethereal touch of his hand caressed her, soothed her in a way that she had never known before. No earthly man could tantalize her like Erik could; no man could ever replace the tender-taken touch that was his signature alone.

Her voice heightened as her memories surged into one compact channel, leading them to the center of her thoughts. Flashes of images flickered within the dim hollows of her mind. A faded likeness of her in front of the mirror practicing without respite with her unseen mentor perpetuated an onslaught of unforeseen passions and desires, which had lain dormant until now.

The image of César, the famed white horse from _l'Prophéte_ galloped into her mind, splintering all other thoughts and recollections. Her abduction soon followed the timeline of events; the boat ride and the allusion to Charon; the house on the lake; her room and the others within its dark domain. All of it lingered within the forgotten depths of discarded memory.

And then Erik materialized within the forefront of her mind as _Don Juan Triumphant_ played diligently behind him. His dark composition stirred the congealed mass of faded images, memories, and feelings. The vision of his gloved hands moving delicately of the ivory keys of the organ made her tremble in the present.

Christine shifted from the past; trying to disregard the one memory she desired to forget. But she would never be able to let go of the horrid scene below the Opéra's stage. The ill-fated roles of Desdemona and Othello that she and Erik played rivaled her naïve part as the fair Juliet. The horror behind his unmasking almost made her lose her place as she sang Juliet's plight of love.

Her clasped hands shook as the cold vision washed down her spine. And although she did not reveal her despair, she was wreathing inside with it. The past, however, dispersed, leaving her troubled mind to fully focus upon her voice.

She could stand once more, forgetting the past. Her eyes raked over her silent audience as she forced her voice to transcend beyond its set boundaries. She intensified it, compelling it to obliterate every thought in the room. Her eyes then fell upon Erik. She felt his silent censure of her voice, and she impishly grinned at him, continuing with the grace of a foolish child.

It was only when she turned to see Alexander and Marie that she noticed a new face. A figure lingered behind the tsar in the threshold of the massive entrance doors, the frame and set stance was that of a powerful, well-built male.

Christine could not discern his concealed features. But his eyes…his terrible lifeless eyes bore deeply into her soul. And unlike the burning sensation that Erik left upon her; she felt a bleak coldness in these eyes that was too practical, too calculating for her to understand. It was as if this stranger knew her darkest secret, her darkest sin.

Her heart beat erratically in her chest, her soul pleading for her to escape this beautiful vision of hell. Something within her mind convinced her to flee from the lifeless stare. And although she could not understand the fear that had inspired her, she knew that something dark and sinister permeated this man's soul. He was far more dangerous to her than Erik had ever presented himself to be, for cruelty, not bitterness reigned over this stranger's conscience.

Fear overclouded her certainty; the subtle warning of an unknown threat forced her to draw back, move away from the imposing figure. She paid no heed to the questioning stares, as her hands trembled madly at her sides.

Her voice ascended unreachable scales as her breath behind it shuddered. Christine's mind began to sway as her fear intensified. And as she felt the madness of her dread overcome her, Christine looked once more to Erik, silently praying for him to save her from the impending darkness.

The blood within her veins solidified as her vibrant eyes clouded over with dismay. Erik would not come to save her, no one would. And with this cold realization she felt the loss of her self-control, felt the innate terror drive her actions. Her thoughts were thrust into a mantra of crazed conjectures.

Her knees buckled as she teetered on the verge of collapse. Everything that had perpetuated this moment had derived from the horrid stare of an unknown stranger. And as she moved to finish the final line of Juliet's plight her voice, her beautiful ethereal voice shattered in the darkness.

…

**Author's Note: This was a _very_ painful chapter to write. I hope that it was not too terrible to read. I fear that it was very dull in the beginning. I tried to make it as interesting and exciting as I possibly could. I know the first part was a little odd, but I wanted Erik's touching Christine's hair from the previous chapter to have some sort of strange impact upon her.**

**I also find that this chapter and the previous one somewhat mirror each other. Erik sings in the chapter prior to this and Christine in this one. Also, Erik's thought processes reflect each other in both chapters as well. I was surprised to see the style in which they were arranged. I honestly did not intend for that. It just…happened.**

**Also, Ekaterina has plagued me for many months now. It was difficult to introduce her without making her too off-putting. Also, I will confess that she is not a variant to Carlotta. I find Ekaterina to be quite different from the diva. I promise that in future chapters everyone will see why.**

**I know I promised to introduce the main conflict in this chapter, and I have. I know it is vague as to what Christine actually sees in the shadows, but it will come to light soon. I would have gone a bit more into detail, but I wanted to leave the impression of such an enigmatic presence almost destroying Christine's voice at the end of the chapter. I hope that it was not too clichéd. I fear that it was…**

**And now I can finally say that from this momenton I will mainly focus on Erik and Christine's abnormal relationship! I know I should have done this sooner. I really wanted to, but I could not for many reasons. I don't plan to make these chapters too long as the story progresses. And by the looks of it, I feel that it may go rather fast. But we shall see. :)**

**Now, onto the questions:**

**monroe-mary, I know Erik is very blind as to the truth being right in front of him. And sometimes I want to shake some sense into him! However, I will say that as the story progresses he will most certainly begin to question his motives. Perhaps he will see Christine is not lying and hopefully change for the better. This story will hopefully move faster. I plan for the chapters to be much shorter than what they are now. Also, you are right about Nicholas. He's around thirteen or so here. I found it very interesting to write about the tsar at such a young age. And yes, I am trying to remain strictly by Leroux. I find it fun not to mix any other interpretation in this, and keep it solely by the original. But it has been very difficult for me to do so. I fear that I may accidentally make an error one day… Hopefully, I won't. And also, thanks again for reading this story. :)**

**Faust, thank you so much for mentioning that! I was wondering where those words came from! I thought it was from _Ladyhawke_, but I was not too sure. Thanks again for clearing that up!**

**Thank you:**

**Erik'sTrueAngel, Avelera, Venus725, monroe-mary, eridani, Padme Nijiri, musicallover, angelofopera, keylimepie, Marie Erikson, arianna-1984, Elizabeth, Faust, draegon-fire, InLovewithBroadway, loveroftrapdoors, The Hand of Cthulhu, straw8erry thank you again for all of the wonderful reviews, compliments, questions, and suggestions! I truly do appreciate all of your thoughts and opinions! Thank you all so much again. :) **


	12. Chapter Eleven: A Return from Oblivion

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Eleven.

A dismal silence encompassed the immense hall of the Gatchina Palace, enriching it with bitter dismay as an onslaught of awed faces remained motionless, static as the cold intake of despair suffused each soul with a growing sense of dread.

But despite the intense feeling of unease, it was not the fear of something unknown that daunted them, only the cruel knowledge that the voice of an angel had descended into the darkness, never to return from the stygian depths of oblivion. The ethereal beauty that had captivated all had been cruelly obliterated by an unknown hand, its fragmented remains falling into the unseen cracks of despair.

And thus, the unmoving figure of Christine Daaé-de Maricourt remained; her stationary image a cold statue of living flesh. The virginal white gown that molded itself against her lifeless form embellished her unvoiced plight: her innocence, the very beauty that completed her was no more.

The tacit moment in the growing darkness shattered when a bloodless hand fell to her side. Christine stared at her audience, her lifeless gaze falling upon the throng of painted faces. A hushed silence ensued, and the prima donna eyed each soul with a bitter intensity, as if condemning all for her torment.

The vitriolic pain that surged through her weakened form forced her to concede and plead to them, begging them to deliver her from the dour gaze of the man who initiated her fear. His soulless eyes had burned into the hollows her weathered mind, searing her with their cold metallic stare.

Christine could not endure the presence of the insidious manifestation, for it was an evil that was infinite, unequaled by the restless shades that filled the room. And as this thought tortured her troubled mind, her eyes moved away from the safety of her gaping audience to the one who had betrayed her.

The wretched brilliance of the man who tormented her made the conflicted heart within her chest ache with a severe sensation of regret. Erik's golden eyes reflected not only irritation, but also disappointment, disappointment in her failure. A stray tear fell from an azure eye as the harsh sense of dejection inundated her soul.

Strangely, Christine's eyes remained fixed upon his, staring at him with unparalleled shame. And in spite of his apparent hatred, she still yearned for his condemning touch. She wanted him to wipe away the inevitable tears that would stain her pale cheeks, wanted him to assure her that he was there with her and would never, never leave her. But where was his promise of that sweet torture? Why did he betray her, condemning her to the hellish stare of a demon far worse than he could ever be? Could he not see her fragile soul tearing itself apart?

No, she realized, he could not see, for he did not desire to.

And yet, her soul cried out to him where her voice could not. "_Erik_…"she cried, but it only came as a ragged whisper. It was then she realized that she had destroyed the only remaining thing she possessed, for everything else that she cherished had been forsaken, cast aside for a fallen angel. The distinct feeling of true loss overcame her, and Christine swayed against the cruel reality of it, not realizing that all thought and understanding fell away, leaving her to the bitter resolution of utter loss.

No more did she think or even consider her pain. No longer could she find the will to endure the avid observations of the tsar's court; her part as their subject of intrigue had reached its end, leaving her to bow one last time to their intrigued whims.

The perversity and sheer stupidity of it all had finally conquered her, forcing her into a cold submission. The unification of being with the court and the unseen decay of the nobility had finally corrupted her with the intoxicating promise of desolation.

Another tear fell, and her strength waned. Christine moved a fraction of a step, her trembling hand reaching out to the one who inspired her broken voice. Her dismal gaze pleaded to him before the darkness surrounded her, possessing her weakened form and inevitably relieving her of the age-old weariness she graciously endured.

Christine ultimately gave in to the darkness, relinquishing her tattered soul to it.

"My God, she is going to faint!" Alexei cried from his seat, his single eye focused upon Christine's wilting form.

"Christine!" Marie shrieked, moving away from her husband's motionless side. "Christine," she said again, this time calmer and more placating than the last as she hovered over Christine's prone form.

A thousand cries of dismay followed suit, emanating the sensation of utter pandemonium as a mass of bodies crowded around the figure in white.

"Look at her!" one of the nameless onlookers exclaimed. "She is as white as a ghost!"

Alexander glared the crazed spectacle, inwardly despising the perverse thrill people received from partaking in the weakness of others. "Move away from her," he ordered with a disgruntled voice. "Move away from her at once!"

The mob of revelers obeyed, but not for the tsar, for the wretched fear derived by a cloaked enigma destroyed any awe of the scene. Erik's imposing presence inexorably separated the massive crowd, driving them back with tangible trepidation. But regardless of the fear originated by his presence, the empress merely glanced at him, remaining by Christine's side. "She has fainted," she gravely stated, holding on to an inert hand. "She may need a physician."

Erik said nothing to the empress as he kneeled by Christine, his gloved hands gracing over her ashen features. "It is not necessary," he said after a long moment. "I will see to my wife."

"But, _monsieur_…" Marie began to object until Alexander silenced her.

"Let him see to his wife, dear. She has merely had a fainting spell, nothing more," Alexander asserted. "He will notify us if a physician is needed."

"As you wish," the empress conceded. There was a heavy reluctance buried deep within her rigid voice as she glowered at her mute husband with disdain. "But I _will_ be notified of her condition." She turned to Erik. "Take care of her," she whispered to him, her concern for Christine was palpable.

With this quiet addition, Erik nodded to the empress, the dark hood of his cloak concealing any other sentiment. Marie and the rest of the court could only watch with growing horror as the cloaked anomaly artfully lifted his wife from the cold stone tiles, cradling her against the voluminous folds of his cloak.

Erik ignored the mass of stares he and Christine received as he carried her away from the insidious hell of the Russian court. He felt her listless form slightly stir, but it abruptly relinquished any will to escape its comatose state. He pulled her closer against him, holding her with the silent promise of retribution.

His pace quickened as he melded with the opaque shadows the dim light from the suspended chandeliers cast upon the stagnant corridor. His cloaked visage shielded Christine and himself from the garish, false illumination, his possessive hold strengthening with each fleeting second.

After many twists and turns through endless hallways and curving stairwells Erik stood before the ominous set of doors leading to their private chambers. Christine's dark hair swayed against him as he opened the door, his yellow eyes automatically falling upon Mina. "Leave us," he ordered without restraint.

Mina nodded with a momentary hesitance, her hazel eyes raking over the limp figure in his arms. Compassion suffused her pale features, but she said nothing in objection to Erik's terse command. It was understood that she was longer needed. And with heavy reluctance, she abandoned them without a word.

Erik faintly noticed the maid's departure, not seeing the concern upon her face; his gaze remained solely upon Christine. He placed her upon the bed, laying her prone form over the velvet coverlet. Her dark hair had fallen from its bindings, leaving it in beautiful disarray. Her gloved hands lay idly against the wrinkled velvet, giving her the blissful impression of true innocence.

She looked so peaceful, as if she if were in a deep, unremitting sleep, only waiting for the slightest sound to rouse her from her transient slumber. Erik found himself drawn to the frail, frigid beauty. His gloved hands lightly traced hers, feeling the smooth exterior of satin under his leathery touch. Erik considered this strange union and ironically desired to see what lay underneath the deceiving shell of her glove.

But in spite of his abhorrent and sinful desires, he abandoned these crazed notions, abruptly releasing Christine's hand. It was unwise to indulge one's self in the taste of a forbidden fruit, for it promised only the bitter assurance of a sweet death. Christine was a poison to him—one that would purge him of the revenge that his black soul craved.

What was it that compelled him to palely loiter by her side? She was nothing more than a means to an end, an end that would ironically suit both of their needs. She needed a guardian to guide her through the harsh strictures of society and he yearned for her conflicted uncertainty of things. He reveled in her self-appointed misery, seeing that not only he suffered throughout this endless debacle.

Regardless of his pleasure in his captive's perpetual torture, he found himself rather disappointed in her behaviour this night. Her carelessness with her voice proved that she no longer cared for the temperament of the fragile instrument she was innately bestowed with. The frailty of such a fickle device had ultimately collapsed, leading Erik to the conclusion of the damage done to it being permanent.

Erik cursed her for such vain idiocy. She would utterly destroy herself in the end. And he realized with painful clarity that he could not afford such a significant loss. He refused to have a flawed wife. Christine would be perfect, without fault. He would shatter this idyllic illusion of hers; tear her ignorant mind from its false imaginings and make her understand that he now held her bonds. He was the master of her, and he would not yield, not to her, _never_ to her.

With a muttered curse he tore himself away from her, finding a dry cloth and a basin of cold water. The icy feel of the thick liquid did not penetrate the abrasive leather of his gloves as he saturated the cloth with its contents.

Mechanically he wrung the excess water from the sodden material and carefully placed it against the pale face of his lifeless bride. Erik swabbed her temples with the cloth, massaging the smooth skin with his deft touch.

Once more he gazed upon the face of his false wife, noting each detail, each minute aspect. He even noticed a small beauty mark in the crevice of her collarbone. Strange, that such a feature would go unnoticed by his vigilant eye.

His leather-bound fingers moved deftly, tracing the disheveled strands of ebony hair. The skeletal digits moved without thought, without care through unknown boundaries, endlessly searching for a reason unknown to their master.

It was in that fatal moment that Christine opened her eyes. The azure orbs slightly widened, but the impression of terror in them was vacant. In its place was a profound tenderness. A slight smile creased her pale lips as a weak hand moved from the wrinkled coverlet.

Christine stared at him, her weary eyes adjusting to the poor light within the chamber. She felt the cool dampness of the cloth and the coarse leather of his gloves at her temples. But the gentleness of his touch thrilled her, making her heart quaver with an innate elation that her child's mind could never understand.

She faintly recalled a scene similar to this one, where Erik had displayed such concern. The familiarity of his touch and the pointed gaze of his luminous eyes only intensified her memory of her first abduction.

A faint frown concealed her drawn features. She had fainted again. And yet, Erik was here, by her side, urging her from the dreamless state of unconsciousness. The beauty of his careful ministrations only brought forth a deeper admiration of him. Even when he had deceived and taken her from the placating light of the sun she could not admit to herself that she felt a new affinity to the myriad of nameless shadows that enshrouded his life. Inside, she felt her woman's heart yearn for that unknown darkness…

She then felt him slightly shift from her side, only half aware that one of his hands had entangled itself within a mass of unruly curls. Christine automatically stilled his hand, holding it captive within her weakened grasp. She felt his hesitation of her brazen action but remained where he was, his feral eyes questioning her motives.

Azure eyes riveted over the cracked porcelain mask as a pair of sable brows lowered in consternation. Why did he have to suffer the cruelty of others? Christine wondered, inwardly pitying the broken obstruction. Even his mask drew attention with its outward imperfections.

Christine's hand trembled as it moved on its own volition, inevitably coming in contact with Erik's broken mask. Her breathing shuddered when she felt his allowance of such an intimate contact, making her slightly frown when her fragile fingers fell against its fractured exterior. The crack was massive under her tentative touch as she graced against it the inner corner of the left eye, then tracing over the bridge of the false nose and across the mask's right cheek. The crack was deep, disturbing. It was a miracle that it remained intact.

Her dark brows knitted together. Why, after all of this time, had he not replaced it? she asked herself. It looked as if it would shatter beneath her timid touch. Why would he take the risk of revealing himself to others?

But the feel of the cracked porcelain dissuaded her from posing her question. Inwardly, she realized that the white face looming over her held back the true monstrosity from within. Erik had at least given her that small courtesy. Christine looked away from him, not bearing the sight of his wretched mask a moment longer, ignorant that her hand still graced the garish façade with her tiny fingers.

"Erik…" she whispered brokenly, her voice pained.

Erik's yellow eyes considered her fractured plea, as he quietly removed her hand from the mask's broken cheek. "Do not speak, Christine," he quietly admonished her, placing a calloused leather finger to her lips. "Not a word."

She stared at him, her expression almost imperceptible. After a silent moment she felt him move away from her, handing her the wet cloth. Christine felt its damp texture, and was inwardly moved by his apparent concern for her. She watched him as he stood by the window, his false face turned away from her.

"Tell me, my dear," Erik finally said after the fall of a tensed silence, his cold voice drifting into the darkness, "what possessed you to do something so reckless, so foolish?" His hellish eyes bore menacingly into hers. "You _know_ that your voice is not ready to endure the burden of such a demanding echelon. I told you never to try until you were truly prepared for it." He glared at her. "I cannot repair a voice once thoroughly damaged, Christine."

Christine's remorseful expression bespoke her guilt when she turned her wretched gaze to the safety of the window and past his condemning stare. A trembling hand moved to her wounded throat, her fingers massaging the pale flesh from underneath. Her face contorted into an expression of utter dismay when she felt the remnants of sound reverberate from the damaged instrument. She knew she had to answer him, and blatantly confess all of the traitorous longings and thoughts that had conflicted her since the day he forced her to choose.

The vision of the scorpion and grasshopper came to her mind once more, the crude brass objects gleaming menacingly; perfect and unaltered in the web of memories she had inadvertently collected from that horrid night.

It seemed that by confessing her sins to Erik she would make another monumental decision. This time, it would be doubtful that she would survive it and live without guilt by his side. Would he forgive her for what she was about to confess? She could only pray so.

"I…" she began timidly, wretchedly as her eyes sorrowfully met his.

"Christine, do not say anything," Erik warned.

"But…I must…E—Erik," she replied disjointedly. Seeing him slightly nod, she continued. "I must…confess s—something to you." She paused briefly, compelling herself to speak more connectedly.

"What is it, then?" he asked dispassionately, his tone impassive, uncaring.

Christine flinched at the apathy concealed within his cold words. But she did not falter; her eyes remained fixed upon his impatient visage. A myriad of words churned within her, waiting to be uttered. And she seized the fleeting courage from within, enforcing it and intensifying her words with the concrete validity of her being.

"Perhaps…it is for that best that I no longer sing, Erik," Christine quietly murmured, finding that she could speak clearly. She watched him as his shoulders tensed under the death shroud of his cloak. The ominous hood from the wretched covering was drawn away from his head, revealing the remaining strands of his dark hair.

She stared at him, wondering why he withdrew himself from the sight of others with the cloak, hiding the remainder of his person within its ebony folds. She hated to see him conceal himself in such a perverse manner. And although he did it to quell suspicion, she found herself wanting to assure him that his appearance no longer troubled _her_. Christine belatedly realized that she could also look upon his face and not secretly shudder from the abnormality that had cursed him since birth.

The impulse to move the thin strands away from his eyes greatly tempted her, but she stilled her hand—and her desire—to physically assuage his growing irritation. After having been denied such contact with his mask she doubted that he would appreciate any more tenderness from her naïve touch. Instead she bit the lower portion of her lip, debating on whether or not to continue, for she knew that whatever she said could not prevent the inevitable argument between them, for Erik would not understand why her voice shattered. She knew that she could not confess her fear or the man who had strangely inspired it to him. In truth, she could not prove that her nameless adversary was nothing more than a delusion, brought on by the unending hours of pain and worry.

She would not tell Erik—not yet, not until she found the need to. Having him angry with her over a childish fear would only place a larger gap between them, a gap that she so desperately wanted to breach. If only she could…

After a moment's hesitation Christine finally placed her thoughts into words. "I have disappointed you, Erik. I realize that, but I believe that it would be best that I discontinue singing," she quietly murmured.

Erik said nothing, merely loomed over her with a growing irritation that augmented into unrivaled anger. "Why?" he asked, his cold voice shattering her weakened figure like shards of merciless ice.

Christine, not bearing to see the anger within his masked expression, turned away. "Because…because it hurts me to," she responded pitifully, silently praying that her answer would satisfy him.

"And why does it hurt you, Christine?" Erik asked without considerate remorse. Not receiving a reply, he pressed further. "Christine, tell me," he whispered, as if inquiring her to finally speak and end her visible turmoil.

"I fear that you are right, Erik," she finally said at last, her words barely above a whisper. "I will most likely never be able to sing again. And I find that it no longer matters to me."

Erik's rigid posture lessened a small fraction as he crossed over to her side, his skeletal form looming over her. His breathing stilled and he stared down at the pitiful form that was his wife. "Why?" he uttered, the word holding indifferent disbelief. "Why, Christine?"

Another tear fell, forcing her to look away from him. "Must you ask me, Erik? Is it not enough that I confess that much?"

A gloved hand moved under her chin, forcing her to look at its master. "No." Erik's hollow eyes bore into hers. "No, it is not enough. It will _never_ be enough, Christine."

She gaped at him, utterly defeated by his empowering hold on her. She wanted to turn away, escape his insidious wrath, but could not find the strength or even the will to. The moment had come at last, and Christine realized that he would despise her even more. But she could not deny him the truth. Not anymore, not after everything they had endured.

Christine closed her eyes as the dam within her mind finally broke, spilling her tainted secrets into an ignorant world. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, leaving a silver path of unquenchable sorrow in their wake. Her breathing shuddered; her voice wracked with heavy sobs. She felt his anger and the cold, apathetic indifference that encased his dead heart rival her pain and loss she had suffered since she could remember.

She recalled her final performance in _Faust_, the memory of it never fully leaving her. The true and unforgivable anguish of that terrible night had all but been forgotten, as an onslaught of regret filled her, possessed her with an unquenchable grief that would never fully heal. Erik's cruelty of making her choose brought forth the bitterness she had buried deep within herself. She hated him that night, and promised herself that she would never forgive him for the grief he had caused.

And yet, she had forgiven him, for his pain rivaled her own. Her childish eyes were opened at last, seeing the truth behind the mask. But despite that, she knew she could never sing again, not after everything that had happened; the voice within her had unfortunately died.

And as the sorrow of her failure welled up within her, she cried out her pain, her loss, and the utter dejection of her voice's demise: "Then I will tell you, Erik," she sobbed, her voice strangely clear as it heightened to one of righteous anger. "I have not sung since the night you pulled me from the stage!" She glared at him through tearstained eyes as her voice lowered to a faint whisper as the pain of her outcry surged through her throat. "Because I cannot find the will to, for the memory of it is too painful to bear…"

_And because you hate me so,_ she also wanted to admit.

A harsh silence followed her confession, permeating the room with cold unease. And like a dark god escaping the lower reaches of a black hell Erik hovered over her, piercing her with uncaring eyes.

Erik considered her words, his yellow gaze riveting over her beleaguered form. She looked so frail, so weak as the words fell quietly into the stagnant air between them. Her confession, though moving, did not thaw the bitterness instilled within his heart. A dispassionate feeling overtook his momentary anger, dispelling his ire for her ultimate weakness.

"Then that is your misfortune." Erik's words deftly fell upon her, abusing her with their callous meaning.

His detached visage molded itself in the cracked porcelain of his mask, unyielding and unforgiving. The plight of Christine's tears left him hollow, without sympathy for her apparent pain. Agony had washed upon the shores of her mind, leaving her vulnerable to him.

And thus, the remnants of a timeless act ensued; the endless waltz of their conflicted union once again infused them, forcing them to comply and bear the other's presence. For although Erik desired to abandon her to her misery, he found that he could not. Something forced him to remain by her side, forced him to witness her cries and the loss of her beautiful innocence.

His words had condemned her, tearing away any hope she may have had of redeeming him. Christine had the influence of having the worst tyrant to pity her; her tears were so convincing, and almost believable. But alas, she would never receive any pity from him. His love for her had died as the assassin's bullet pierced his rotten flesh, obliterating all kindness and compassion he once had for her.

But the anguish marked upon her angelic face swayed him from his dark thoughts, silently pleading for him to relent. And much to his eternal dismay, he gave in to this small request, allowing her this slight kindness.

Erik lingered by her side, his hand roaming through the ebony mats that tormented her hair. His gloved fingers instinctively moved through the silken dark tendrils, caressing them with infinite care. Christine looked up at him, her face awash with palpable sadness, causing his tentative ministrations to end.

"Erik…" she whispered disbelievingly as her face turned and instinctively connected with the palm of his hand. "Why are you—"

"Silence, my dear," he interjected, feeling her warmth saturate his gloved hand. He felt her lips move against the rough leather, as if she would counter his words. Instinctively he moved his hand away from her, not wanting to feel her soft lips against him. Such naïveté from an untouched woman, for he was sure that she was, could still prove to be dangerous, if not more potent in her charms than those of an experienced harlot.

Erik knew of such women, and he would be damned if Christine—_his_ Christine—ever became as such. The price of innocence perfected her, making her the dire opposite of him. No man would ever touch her, he vowed. And no man would ever have the pleasure her sweet soul innately promised, not even he would experience such forbidden rapture, for she would remain untouched, chaste and pure from the rest of the world—his virgin wife.

But now was not the time to consider such thoughts; no, more important matters needed to be addressed…

He glanced at Christine, noting the entranced awe within her beautiful face. It seemed that by the slightest exchange between them he had successfully allayed her tears, pulling her away from her momentary dejection. She looked up at him, as if he were a pagan god, and she, one of his devout followers. How childlike, how innocent she appeared to him now—like an apparition out of a child's faerie story. The image of her illustrious naïveté burned itself into his mind.

Dispelling his thoughts and fleeting lapse of judgment, however, Erik finally spoke: "You must rest, Christine," he said in a solemn voice. "Lamenting over what has been lost will never return it to its former state." He paused for a moment, regarding her with what could be considered as abject pity; the hope within her tearstained eyes pleaded for him to continue. "I will aid you in regaining your voice."

Christine looked up at him, her mouth agape with sheer surprise. "B—but I thought our lessons were over…"

Erik slightly grinned under the mask, his twisted lips repressing the innate delight of his bride's simplicity. "They are," he concurred; his deep voice was an angel's gentle sigh. He noticed the confusion taint her pale features, and he instinctively moved forward, his face a breadth's apart from hers. He gazed into the azure depths of her eyes as they darkened with an unknown sensation that the rest of her tilted form furtively concealed. He saw the confusion, and also the subtle desire of something more…

And then he spoke: "I will return your voice, _mon ange_." He moved away from her agape visage, placing a comfortable distance between them.

The prima donna shuddered, abashed by what had almost transpired. Her voice betrayed her thoughts when she uttered, "Why?"

He looked at her, his expressionless mask concealing his amusement. "Although you refuse to sing for the rest of the world, Christine, I realize that I cannot have a mute wife, now can I?" he replied. "Rest now; I will see you in a few hours."

Christine watched him leave her to the shadows and darkness of the room, giving her the solace she greatly needed. But regardless of his kind intention Erik had also left her to her own wretched thoughts and the brilliant confusion behind what had almost occurred between them.

…

Time passed without fault, or even the realization of how fleeting the hours in a day could fall and fade into the darker reaches of oblivion. A month had passed, leaving the Gatchina Palace at a silent standstill. Many of its guests had quietly retreated from its impassive domain, vacating its antediluvian halls without regret.

The events leading up to the unanticipated climax of Christine de Maricourt's introduction and tragic loss of her golden voice had all but compelled the others in the tsar's court to depart. However, the empress' subtle stipulations of clearing her unwanted guests only spurred many to leave that much sooner.

And so silence dominated the ancient halls once again, returning the much-desired peace it previously obtained. The royal household and its native occupants strangely sighed in relief that a semblance of normalcy had returned like a prodigal son from the harsh reality of the world.

Christine also found herself grateful that most had finally turned their attention away from her, focusing upon something of more interest. The news of her malady, however, spread like wildfire through the streets of the capital and even more distant cities such as Moscow.

Much had changed since that fateful night. And although she regained her voice, she could not fully repair the damage done to it. It was doubtful that she would ever be able to sing as she once did, and even if she could, she would never surpass its set limits, even Erik had reluctantly confirmed what she already knew.

However, much to the regret of her loss, Erik had remained with her during those weeks, forcing her voice to overcome its injury. He had stayed with her through the evenings after retiring from the tsar's company, and even worked with her through the long hours of the night. His patient voice and forceful attitude only incited her will to salvage a fraction of what she had lost.

And with his constant urging, she had successfully reclaimed a semblance of her once-beautiful voice. The previous night had been a taxing trial on both as they worked at a simple line of speech patterns. Her broken words finally melded into clear, concise ones, forming sentences without error. She had blissfully cried upon Erik, grasping the lapels of his cloak when her voice finally returned.

She cried even now. But it was not the shedding of remorseful tears of what been lost, but tears for the time she and Erik shared. With each passing day, Christine had inexorably grown closer to her former mentor, basking in the deep, confiding tones of his voice. Even when he had shown disapproval of her failed attempts, she could only revel in his near presence.

They had been so close that they were mere inches apart from each other. And she had longed through those strenuous hours to make some sort of physical contact with him, to touch him and know that he was not a ghostly apparition. But she had stilled her hand and focused upon his autocratic words.

"Christine, does something trouble you?" Marie's concerned voice shattered the dismal air, retrieving her mute guest from a silenced reverie.

Christine looked at the empress, secretly ashamed that she was still in Marie's presence. "Forgive me," she muttered a quick apology, wiping a tear from her left eye.

Marie placed a calm hand on her addled guest's knee. "It is quite all right. I understand your tears, my dear. Losing your voice like that would be a dreadful experience for anyone. Do not apologize for it," her soothing comforted. "I am only relieved that it has returned." Her dark brows pierced together as she asked, "Will you still be able to sing?"

Christine slightly frowned. "I believe it will be quite some time before I do," she said evasively.

"I hope it returns in full measure then. You have such a lovely voice, Christine." Marie's smiled returned. "And I can also assure you that Alexander has learned his lesson on making his guests perform in public without previous notice." She laughed. "I believe that in the future he will not be so avid as having anyone perform at his table."  
"I suppose not." Christine could not suppress a smile. "It was something to remember, though…"

The empress inclined her dark head. "Indeed it was." She gently sighed before continuing. "And I as much as I would like to laugh over my husband's folly, I must now come to the serious part of our discussion." Her obsidian eyes moved to Christine's with a pointed expression. "I must apologize for the behaviour of one my guests—Lady Ekaterina, to be more precise—has caused you quite a lot of unnecessary grief. I will remove her from my court for her conduct towards you and many others. I cannot apologize enough for the circumstances given other than the fact that she will no longer trouble you or your husband—_ever._"

Christine's mouth slightly opened, surprised by Marie's sense of justice. Even though the lady in question had caused a lot of pain for her, she could not allow Marie to dismiss Lady Ekaterina from the Russian court. The sentence in itself seemed too cruel.

"Please, Marie." Christine's hand rose to defend her objection. "I understand that Lady Ekaterina has shown unkindness towards me, but I cannot express the same to her." Her azure eyes revealed true pity. "I know that she has suffered from the opinion of others, but I do not wish to cause her further injury."

Marie's eyes widened. "Christine, are you certain about this? She has greatly wronged you, yet you wish to show her mercy," She slightly grinned despite herself. "I suppose that I could not expect any less from you, for you are truly benevolent, even when people affront you with such abrasive behaviour," she mused and then said, "I will allow Lady Ekaterina to say in my court, but only on one condition: that she act decently and remember her place as a lady. I will not have her offending you again."

"I understand," Christine conceded. "However, I am partly to blame for this. I lost my voice by fault of my own ignorance. Lady Ekaterina merely suggested that I sing. I cannot hold her responsible for something that I caused."

"I suppose you are right," Marie relented with a heavy sigh, then nodded. "Then we shall forget the matter." Her dark gaze then lightened. "Oh, which reminds me, I almost forgot to mention this…" She retrieved an ivory piece of vellum from the pocket of her gown. "The Lady Johanna Eden-Descanov has requested that you visit her for a soiree she is hosting."

"A soiree?" Christine asked timidly.

Marie's eyes raked over the contents of the letter. "Yes, it will be hosted the following Wednesday at her home." Her eyes met Christine's. "It's not far from the capital and would only be short day's journey from here." She slid the envelope back into its concealed place. "Christine, I understand that it may be too soon for you to enter into another public engagement, and if you would like, I can write to Johanna and explain everything," she offered. "Johanna will understand since she herself has been ill."

"What is wrong with her?" Christine spoke, as if for the first time in many in days.

"She was in a carriage accident a few months ago—right before yours, actually. The court was in a terrible malaise when the news of her injury spread throughout city. Many actually traveled to her home in Moscow to see if her servants knew of her current condition. Johanna's accident was the latest news until reports of the train accident circulated."

Christine glanced away from the penetrating stare of the empress to the safety of her lap. She looked at her gloved hands, folding them in a ladylike gesture. It would be difficult to accept such an offer since she wished to remain in the shadows of the court. But her timidity was also that of seeing those lifeless eyes again. And yet, she had not seen him, nor heard of the mysterious stranger after her collapse on the palace floor. Perhaps he only existed in her mind after all.

Casting aside her morose musings Christine looked away from her hands and to the empress. "It would be an honour to meet Lady…Eden-Descanov."

Marie grinned madly. "Wonderful! Then I shall write to her directly. I truly believe that you will enjoy meeting Johanna. She is certainly a rarity among the Russians." Seeing Christine's confusion, she added, "The affair of Johanna and her husband is legend in the court's circles. I am surprised no one has mentioned it to you, not even her own sons." She shook her head in mild dismay.

"Lord Graf and Lord Alexei are—"

"Yes," Marie confirmed in a blithe tone. "Graf is the heir to his father's title and holdings, whilst Alexei is the younger of the two. There's a third," she began, but stopped herself in mid-sentence. "However, that is not important. You will most likely only see Johanna's brood anyway."

Christine laughed. "Tell me, Marie, what is this legend you speak of?" she asked, her curiosity overcoming her silence.

"Curious, my dear?" Marie teased. "Well, even as I am one for gossip, I fear that it would not be fair of me to tell you. I believe I owe that honour to Johanna herself. She at least can give you the true version of the tale." Her grin widened. "Perhaps I could tell you a little, though—later this evening. But enough of that, I will inform Johanna of your acceptance." Marie gently smiled, her expression sincere. "She will be happy to know you have accepted, Christine. It seems that she has become rather fragile these days…"

Christine nodded as the conversation between them drifted into one of much simpler topics, their comfortable meeting ending on a light note with the promise of an entertaining evening of the capital's latest scandals and questionable gossip.

…

Darkness fell upon the palace as a coverlet of stars bordered the heavens with their tiny illuminated souls, leaving only the memory of the winter sun's rays upon countless glass windowpanes. Silence dominated the dark corridors, leaving a sense of ominous intent within their poorly hidden shadows.

Christine arose from the cold confines of her bed after a fit of wakeful dreams; the disturbing impressions that remained from them contorted her sable brows into a slight frown as she crossed over to the gallery window.

She looked through its gilded panes and deeply sighed, the very weight of the world within its hollow shudder. All evening, she had endured the ardent welcomes and passionate praises of those who remained at the tsar's household, Alexei Descanov thankfully among them who made her feel more at ease with the kind prattle he imparted on her, his flippant apology of his brother's departure making her reveal a timid smile. But despite her delight in Alexei's droll words, she felt the cold stare of her pretend husband. Erik's eyes glared at her through the mask's imposing slits throughout dinner, leaving the faint impression of irritation within the yellow irises.

He barely spoke to her. And as the evening drew on, she could feel that odd irritation strengthen, evolving into remote anger. His possessive hold on her tightened like a coiled snake as it painfully encircled her hand, crushing it with his unspoken fury. She had almost cried out in pain, but bit lip for fear of causing him further upset.

Though he was justified in the guardianship of his alleged wife, she could not understand his unorthodox possession of her. Why did he steel himself against her when someone spoke to her? Why did he glare so condemningly at Alexei when he offered to show her the Chisme Gallery? TheRussian lord had to reluctantly withdraw his offer, making a poor excuse to leave her company.

Throughout the evening and into the early hours of dawn, Erik had loomed over her, daring anyone to approach them, but more in particularly, her. His dark possession on had inevitably begun to make her sway against him, falling into his cold embrace.

He had taken her submission as fatigue, and making his excuses to the tsar, stole her away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, their brilliant exodus flooding the room with quiet whispers and rampant excitement.

It was then Christine recalled what had caused the conflict in her restless slumber.

_Erik's cold hands guided her to the bed, mutely compelling her to rest. She had looked up at him, her expression timid as his eyes quietly considered her. Her mouth opened, as if to utter the ever-present confusion of when he was near her, but only felt his fingers slightly grace her lips, silencing her with their leathery touch._

_Her heart quavered madly within her chest, enforcing her with a new resolve: she wanted, if only once in her life, to have him express the same conflicted emotion she felt. To have him relent and give up this insane quest of punishing her with something that could never be._

_Oh, God, how she wanted him strip away that horrid mask and smile at her with those crooked lips. She wanted his eyes to convey the same loving expression that he had once given to her long ago. She wanted release from this false life they had fabricated, but more importantly, she wanted him near her, whispering her calm reassurances that he would stay with her, and never allow her to be alone in the unforgiving darkness…_

Christine released a stifled sigh as an idle tear fell down her cold cheek. She grimaced at the memory, knowing that her mind aligned itself with one simple truth: she wanted him with her even now. His cruel punishment of leaving her only increased her fear of being alone. She was isolated in an illustrious fortress, her immaculate prison. It was the same isolation that he had endured for over twenty years. And she realized that her discomfort of it paled dimly in comparison to his solitude, which had lasted for an endless eternity.

If they could live within a world of darkness and be each other's sole companion, then she would gladly consent to his need for seclusion. His company would be more than enough, for she had seen too much of the world already.

She was ready to accept the darkness, for by staying with Erik, she would inescapably accept the shadows and the complete blackness of his soul. Long ago, she would have beenfrightened to consider such a blasphemous thought. But now she knew she could no longer live without the dark promise he subtly offered.

And as she stood by the cold, unforgiving panes of the gallery window, she noticed a cloaked figure hover over the palace grounds, the white brilliance of the fallen snow contrasting the darkness of the black shroud. The head was concealed by the cloak's drawn hood, but Christine knew the figure's identity…

Erik.

Christine's fingers fell against a glass pane, caressing it with their idle touch. She watched him like a silent voyeur, observing his graceful gait across the grounds. He looked like a god, gracing a silent world with his divine presence, which she unknowingly basked in.

Her mouth opened slightly, as if to confess her sins to him. "Erik…" her words fell upon a deaf whisper. Her eyes widened, riveting upon his concealed visage. And just as her breath fell short, she saw him turn, facing her with a masked expression. Yellow eyes illuminated with golden brilliance as they moved to the glass window and beyond it.

A pale hand inadvertently moved to her chest, trying to still the beating of her heart. Christine's harsh breath fell against the window, fogging the translucent panes with torrid awe. She wiped the noisome obstruction away, trying to see her dark tormentor.

Erik's eyes remained on hers before he inclined his head in acknowledgement and turned away from her, leaving her to the coldness of their room once more. Christine fell against the window, her face contorted in both pain and relief. It was as if an angel had quelled any anguish that she might have had with that small gesture.

He still showed some human kindness towards her, even though it only contributed to his own, personal benefit. She could forgive him for his brilliant omission, however. It was a small price to pay for the liberation of a lifetime's worth of unending nightmares.

…

**Author's Note: I apologize for taking so long with the chapter. College has been quite taxing as of late. I have foregone writing two papers to get this done, but I find the suffering of my studies well worth it!**

**And now for the explanation of this chapter… I know it was a little odd and unorthodox from my regular chapters, but I _had_ to have a shift in my story. I wanted to focus on Erik and Christine's relationship, and I suppose I have—with a passion, nonetheless! I love Christine's confusion, because it is evident that she is clearly attracted to Erik, even though she is completely oblivious to it. **

**But Erik…**

**I believe he does show a bit of kindness toward her. I hope I did not make him too out-of-character with that. I truly intended to have him leave her, but it seemed that Erik did not wish to. He offered to help Christine on _his_ own. I fear I had very little control over that part. It just…happened. **

**Anyway, I will confess that after three drafts of writing this chapter I am quite happy the way it turned out. (I had the last scene in the back of my head for months.) **

**All right. I suppose that covers the chapter other than the fact the scene between Christine and Marie is _very_ significant. (Hint! Hint!) Also, to answer questions who the mysterious person is… Well, _he_ will be introduced in due time! I promise!**

**Now onto the questions!**

**Erik'sTrueAngel, the stranger will be revealed soon enough! In the next chapter, actually! Thanks for reading. :)**

**Venus725, Ekaterina is truly someone you would love to hate. I could I almost pity her, given her past, which I will mention. I am happy you liked the ending! It was fun to write that nice little cliffhanger!**

**draegon-fire, I agree that Ekaterina is far crueler than Carlotta could ever be. She does have that malicious air to her, doesn't she? Anyway, I believe that Erik will soon begin to question his beliefs. He may even begin to show that doubt in his actions… And Christine… She may tell Erik of her assumptions on the assassination attempt, but I think it might be a bit longer before she does. She still has quite a bit to sort out with her feelings and emotions. As for the figure at the end… I will say that he is not affiliated to Raoul in any way. His role in the story will be introduced in the next chapter! Christine will finally see the object of her present worry. :)**

**InlovewithBroadway, trust me, he will be shown soon enough! Thanks again for reviewing!**

**The Hand of Cthulhu, Ah, you know it is, mon ami!**

**Sepia Mortis, I will sadly confess that I am not a professional writer. I am hoping to remedy that with my college major. It is my goal to be officially published one day, maybe even become a _New York Times_ best-selling author. **

**To answer your question about Raoul, I truly believe that he knows of the whereabouts of Christine by now—thatshe is with Erik, but nothing more than that. ****But****as to his meeting with Erik, it may be quite some time before that happens. I fear he is not ready to be introduced in the story just yet. But he will be, I promise!**

**JenWren, Hope you like the update! Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

**Thank you:**

**musicallover, Erik'sTrueAngel, Venus725, Padme Nijiri, draegon-fire, eridani, Tasha, InlovewithBroadway, arianna-1984, keylimepie, Phantomette, Phantom of the Past, Faust, angelofopera, The Hand of Ctulhu, ChrisPgirl, Vimana Feral, Sepia Mortis, aeipathy, Gondolier, Amanda, JenWren, ahomlesspirate, thank all of you so much again for reading and reviewing! Your comments, questions, suggestions, and e-mails mean so much! Thanks!**


	13. Chapter Twelve: Unveil, The Mask of Evil

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Twelve.

The passing of days seemed fleeting, almost trivial. It was difficult to imagine that time—in all of its perpetual consistency—could be so relentless. Like a vengeful god, it pursued its adversary with a timeless persistence that shattered conjoining ages into a thousand broken fragments of hours and seconds.

Time itself held no meaning for those it affected. Mortals lingered, always leaning precariously on the edge of life—with death being the inevitable outcome. But it was merely a faint blemish on the horizon for the lives of many. No one considered the sudden severity that death promised, its waking presence sending only slight trepidation through those who recognized it only too late. Death was finality personified, an end to life. There was no escape; even demons succumbed to it. And angels fell as the harsh sense of mortality overcame their ethereal judgment.

But as the unspoken condemnations of death and its silent vexations loitered throughout the unseen portions of the world it did not deter the lifeless figure in the cold mirror's reflection. Christine beheld the image with vague concern, her thoughts elsewhere.

All morning, she had prepared herself for the soiree that the Lady Johanna Eden-Descanov had graciously invited her to. It was the first affair that she would attend after…

Christine refused to reminisce on the events of that wretched night, banishing the disturbing images from her mind. It was best not to conjure memories long since forgotten, she quietly reasoned as she beheld herself in the mirror once more, her eyes focusing upon the pale, ghostlike reflection.

Her pallor seemed to remain, leaving very little colour within her complexion. Her countenance had diminished from the absence of the sun, the Russian winter taking cruel precedence over the natural light of the world. It was a pity that she was condemned to the false illumination of expensive candles and apathetic chandeliers.

But despite her discomfort, she found that dwelling within the halls of the silent palace almost became a welcome reprieve from the harsh strictures of society. Never had she felt at peace since the eyes of the Russian court turned their heady gaze to another point of interest. No longer was she the center of that passionate awareness that had observed her with such interest, noting each tremulous breath she took.

She then recalled Marie's vague explanation of why she and Erik were subject to such volatile attention. The concept of surviving a cruel hand dealt by Fate was enough to spur anyone from his jaded life of courtesans and cards. It was not out of pity for such unfortunate tidings that many wished upon them but the sheer banishment of an endless tedium that lingered throughout the effervescent streets of the capital, the people nothing more than mere fools that prattled nonsense from witless tongues.

It was impossible to even fathom the toll it had taken on the Lady Johanna, when she first arrived in this desolate wasteland decades before. Did she, too, feel the same probing stares of unseen observers? Did she also feel as if the walls would cave in upon her, shattering her trembling form with their cold foundations? Did those same cruel eyes watch her from afar, subtly threatening her with their malicious intent? Christine shuddered at the thought.

No more would she think, or even consider the coldness within their listless gaze, the memory itself had ruined what little happiness she acquired from the court. The endless parades and cotillions held no excitement for her; not even the simple joy of watching an onslaught of revelers and their childish antics could dispel the emergent worry that festered within her. Fate had decided her fears to be weighted on the sight of a mere illusion, a faded memory.

She could not deny that her fear had truly perpetuated from an actual presence. The explanations of a slight oversight that briefly clouded her unstable judgment were far more concrete, reasonable in a way her naïve mind could understand. It was nothing more than a false impression brought on by her sudden fear of singing in front of the court.

The darkened threshold had held nothing in its Roman archway, for the foreboding entity itself had somehow successfully dissipated after her fall. Even Marie had assured her that no one by her description attended that night. Her beliefs were precipitated by the asinine fantasies of a child. Erik would be ashamed of her if he realized that her fear had advanced through the stages of a brief madness.

Perhaps she shared his wondrous insanity, she faintly mused. Erik's madness, though unpredictable, was a marvelous obsession for those who studied or reveled in its darker, inner recesses. The true darkness that concealed the soul within it twisted its glorious form, warping it into a hideous shell of its former self. It was difficult to find the truth under so many condemning layers, which inevitably damned the soul further.

And yet, even now, the beauty and passion she found within such a twisted perversity of nature possessed her mind like a plague. The horrid black strains of infection poisoned her mind, tainting her soul with its deadly presence. And as she felt her body succumb to its deathly lull, she inwardly welcomed it, accepting the few fleeting seconds that remained before the fatal plunge into the unknown depths of a lifeless eternity. It was a sweet oblivion savoured only by the dead. The living could never understand such wonder, the bittersweet taste of a dull poison lingering upon a pair of lips long since touched by the icy hands of Death.

Erik was with her even now.

For days, his presence remained with her, intoxicating her with an unknown promise of something she could never understand. She now lived only to linger helplessly by his side, to see the unreadable expression within those golden-hued eyes. Like a pair of rare of jewels, the ardent amber orbs would move over her, as reading her tremulous thoughts before descending into a more intimate exchange. He had the power to undress her soul with his eyes.

Even now she felt his searing gaze upon her. The faint traces of his presence remained long after his departure. But the cold validity of his absence, however, also left quite an impact upon her, causing her to frown, as she had every morning since that dawn she saw him look at her from the courtyard below their chamber window. The brief enchantment of that moment left not only the utter frustration of his unnerving scrutiny but also an indefinite confusion that tormented her with a myriad of questions that would unfortunately remain unanswered.

Why did her heart quaver so, even now? Why did her soul feel as if it were being torn from its moorings? She could not find the answer within herself. And strangely, she did not wish to. Whatever feelings she had now were beyond her comprehension, as if waiting to be understood when the true time came. The question was, would she be ready to face that truth when she came upon it, or would she fall from the fear of not knowing? She did not know, for the answer itself eluded her at every turn. And oddly, she found that it no longer mattered since—

"Christine."

The name fell into the darkness, compelling Christine to dispel the remnants of her shattered thoughts. She felt the silent tumult echo into a wave of unforgiving need; the splendour behind it was almost unbearable as she succumbed to the hauntingly all-too-familiar voice that belonged to a condemned angel.

Erik.

A small smile pervaded her colourless lips, as if to welcome him without the triviality that words often left. Azure eyes brightened, the cool watery depths offering not only supplication but also complete submission to their master. Christine's gentle sigh was the only verbal recognition within the silent room.

The temporal moment passed between them, as they said nothing to fill the empty silence, only returned each other's insightful stare. Erik's eyes riveted over her, noting each intricate detail of her person. The odd virginal sense of her ivory gown would leave an impression on many this night. With her willowy features and wordless expression Christine would enthrall all when he dutifully led her through the condemning throng of sinners and debauchers; her untouched beauty would only drive lust and madness into the sickness that infested the court.

Erik knew that she would willingly allow him to display her in such an unholy fashion. And although she could be considered as nothing more than a pretty object to him, he knew that she stayed by his side of her own accord. Why else would she timidly smile when he offered her his arm or held her hand in front of the royal household? His deathly allure was beginning to wane, leaving Christine to overtly accept the corpse that was now her husband.

She was his—completely.

With this in mind he crossed the expanse of the room, hovering over Christine's seated form. He heard her slight intake of breath, felt the inaudible shudder within it. He enjoyed the minute apprehension his presence imparted on her, for it was then that his living bride truly understood the full magnitude of his hold on her.

"Christine," he uttered barely above a whisper.

As he said this, Christine's head inclined, thoughtlessly moving forward. Even without touching her, he possessed her, robbing her mind of its concrete morality. Christine visibly trembled from such an unanticipated loss. It was as if he had stripped her of every sin she had or would later commit.

Her eyes remained closed until the moment passed; leading her out of the drunken euphoria she reveled in. Her eyes opened, focusing upon him. The death shroud suspended itself over him, cruelly concealing his face and leaving only a portion of his mask visible. Yellow eyes stared beyond the slits like two ominous stars.

A nameless fear began to grow within her when his luminous gaze fell upon her. But despite this sudden sensation of awe, she could not remain in the ever-growing tension that besieged her. Finding her voice, she finally spoke: "Why have you come, Erik?"

Yellow eyes reproached her without words. Erik remained silent for a moment before appeasing her with the answer she so desperately sought. "I believe you know why I have come, Christine," he muttered, his words violently devoid of emotion.

Christine looked at him, her sable brows drawing together into a firm line. "Is it time to leave? So soon?"

Erik inclined his head, offering her a gloved hand. "Come with me, Christine."

And like an obedient child, Christine took it, accepting his offer without question. She could no longer feel the dread that welled within her; the undeniable uncertainty of an unknown future left her troubled mind. Erik had successfully dispelled all worries for tonight or any other by the mere caress of his hand.

Christine looked at him as the harsh rays of the sun fell against his imposing form. The weighted beams could not penetrate the dark shroud of his cloak, however. Light, even from the greatest of all stars, could not pierce the darkness that concealed him from the rest of the world. And it was in this apathetic vision she felt the true coldness that concealed him from the rest of the world…and her.

Without thinking, she pulled the abysmal hood away, revealing what lay underneath its abrasive façade. The cracked mask lay coldly against his rotting flesh, concealing the horrid monstrosity of his appearance. It was even colder than the black mask she had burned so many months ago, and her heart ached at the sight of it.

Why did he not replace the wretched mask? Why did he have to accept something so damaged, so callous? Erik did not deserve to have a multitude of people stare at him for something as trivial as a broken mask. She had noticed their condemning intrigue of it many times, and she despised each for such merciless cruelty.

Her hand moved on its volition to the splintered porcelain, her fingers lightly tracing the rigid, massive crack that had unfortunately streamed into a foray of smaller creases. Her touch lingered, moving deftly over the fracture with a reluctant simplicity that prompted her to continue her perverse examination. She closed her eyes and felt, as if committing the horrid manifestation to memory.

An eternity seemed to have passed between them when Christine finally opened her eyes to see the impassive mask once more. The only semblance of life reflected out of the almond-shaped slits was the listless stare that silently questioned her motives.

Pity, along with compassion, flooded her senses as she considered the harsh validity of the truth: he would never be like anyone else in this damning world; the mask prevented such liberation. Something akin to rage burned within her then.

Once again, she had initiated an intimate exchange with him, caressing the false face without revulsion. And ironically, he allowed her to without hesitation or even revealing the slightest hint of fear as she traced the concrete blasphemy that concealed his true visage. Erik was condemned to hide behind a ruined mask that offered only torment and self-hatred, she thought miserably.

A gentle sigh that was almost inaudible escaped her staid guardian. Christine's fingers remained in place, despite Erik's quiet admission. For over a month she had not touched him in such a way. And she realized how much she missed having him so close, to able to touch his pliant form without fear. Erik felt cold under her tentative touch, and yet maintained the corporeal frailty of a living man.

Christine basked in his divine presence, which inevitably gave her the strength to look at him, her poignant stare reflecting itself within his luminous eyes. She could find no reason to fear him then, for within those fathomless stygian sockets lay the intelligence and patience of her former tutor. The hellish yellow orbs that burned within his death's head were no longer dreadful, but beautiful to her. He no longer had a reason to hide from her; the mask only obscured a face.

A silent moment passed and she finally summoned the courage to speak: "Erik," she gently whispered his name. "Why must you hide yourself behind a broken mask? Surely, you realize that you do not have to now. You could purchase a new one for the court so no one will—"

Her words were abruptly halted when Erik's grasp on her hand tightened, forcing her to be silent. She felt the coarse leather of his glove coil around her hand, its serpentine hold crushing the delicate flesh underneath. She silently flinched at the cruelty within his touch, not understanding the reason why he sought to silence her.

She wanted to look away from him but knew that she would regret the hideous aftermath of such a dire act. Her eyes remained on his, watching the anger seethe and molder within them. His silent breathing became ragged, his thin fingers bruising her tiny wrist.

Erik's enraged eyes burned, his anger searing her frail form with a cruel intensity that inundated his wretched soul. Christine had inadvertently dared to speak her poison, wishing for an unattainable perfection conveyed by a pretense of his true self. A febrile hatred churned maddeningly within him, consuming his judgment.

"Do you wish for perfection, Christine?" His hand tightened around hers, causing her to wince. He ignored her pained expression and continued. "Must my face be concealed by something that contrasts my true nature?" he spat, his other hand forcing her captive fingers to rake against the mask.

"Erik, please…" Christine whimpered like a broken child. "I did not mean…"

His eyes hardened at her words. "Oh, but you did, Christine," he reproached her coldly. "You want me to hide in the shadows so you can ignore me while you flit yourself in front of everyone." His eyes bore menacingly into hers. "I will not be a dog ready to die for you, Christine. My desire to be like everyone else has long since died."

A dreadful silence followed his words, descending down a broken path of veiled worry and dark anticipation. Christine held her breath in fear of angering him further. The heartless monster had returned in full measure, leaving her with the broken shards of the beautiful image she had once envisioned him as. This was not the man she adored; this was the man she feared.

Christine watched him in growing dread; dark deliberation was etched within the mask's lifeless expression.

Erik held her in cold reflection, his hands imprisoning hers, as if they were his to manipulate and punish. He felt a slight shudder emit from her broken form, revealing her ultimate weakness to him. Her desire for him to retain a semblance of normalcy had only furthered his hatred of her.

Did she not realize that she was the author of his current state? The cracked mask was only a physical representation of their blasphemous union. The desire to disassociate his self from society blatantly lay within its cracked surface. Christine did not know his reasons, nor would she understand them. His naïve wife would remain in ignorance, for the tangible absurdity of his misfortune was too convenient to renounce.

And yet, as these thoughts pervaded his mind, he recalled a time that greatly contrasted his beliefs now. The construction of a mask—one that had the ability to deceive all—had been created out of the depths of his artistic imagination. It was a mask made to mislead, one that maintained the ability to make him look like anyone. He did not lie to Christine when he confessed to her that he could be an ordinary man if _she_ so wished it. At the time, he would have worn it for her during their wedding, had the occasion been less…inconvenient.

The _daroga_ and vicomte's descent into his domain had ruined any chance of happiness he and Christine might have had. He realized that even though she despised him then, in time she would have accepted him as a husband, perhaps would have even come to love him. And as the heavy throws of betrayal furthered his hatred, he knew that he could not allow Christine to leave him—_ever_.

He glared at his bride; his mind dwelled on the night when his fury descended into the lowest regions of Hell, his dark reflections returning him to that mordant point in time. Erik recalled everything in vivid detail, his hold on Christine's hand lessened as he remembered…

Erik had fought the agony that surged through his soul, the pain in his voice heightening until it reached a brilliant crescendo that echoed throughout the dark corridors of his home and beyond the soundless shore of the lake. No creature could evoke such anguish as he had that night; the tainted memory of Christine's treachery only intensified his torment.

_The inexorable pull of his loss forced him to seethe with cold indignation._ _His anger for her betrayal inevitably perpetuated itself into an unrighteous bout of rage that destroyed everything within his sight. The house he had dwelled in for half of his life felt much of his wrath as he defiled every room within it. The Louis-Philippe room—Christine's room—had become the center of his resentment, for he had destroyed everything that held any significance to his pain. _

_Many of the other rooms in the house were cruelly altered by his unquenchable fury, his single act of violence placing an enraged mob's petty cruelty to shame. The endless foray of mirrors in the torture chamber were viciously shattered by his bare hands, the remnants of deep wounds from the broken shards remained upon his gloved hands as testaments to his growing despair. _

_And despite the physical pain of the bullet wound, the burning rage within had sustained him, giving him the strength to prevail and obliterate every memory of _her_. Christine had abandoned him, leaving him to die in the darkness. And he had wept for his grievous error, the saltine tears shamelessly falling in silence._

_For countless hours he wept on the cold floor, not feeling the time pass as his body wracked with memories of pain and utter dejection. His sanity was tattered, his soul in ruin. The infamous Opéra ghost had been reduced to nothing more than a broken man. A mindless child had made him as such, and it was then in that cataclysmic moment that his strength returned._

_He had forced his pitiful form away from the ancient Persian carpet, standing over the wreckage of his beloved home. No more would he bemoan his loss to the shadows, no more would he lament over his tragedy. The vicomte and his intended would pay. He would strip them of their happiness and forever change the course of their destinies._

_And thus his true revenge began in the catacombs of the Opéra Populaire. _

_A fire, deep and rich in its flaming glory, burned brilliantly on the cold shore of the house beyond the lake. Dark smoke billowed its ominous intent around the massive inferno. It was Avernus personified._

An ax from the Opéra lay idly by the fire, the remnants of the ebony coffin burning in its wake. Erik watched the flames engulf his former resting place, glaring at the dark symbolism that such an act conveyed. Oh, he was not ready to die—not yet. Not until Death forced him to abort this material sphere, and even then he doubted he would comply with its will.

The searing flames of the fire smoldered as more offerings were made to its insidious being, its master giving it life. Erik moved before his living creation, as if encouraging the flames to breathe, in his hands was a small quantity of weathered papers. His eyes looked at them with cold indifference, then to the fire. A moment passed in the timeless darkness; Erik clutched the sheets in apathetic irritation, his eyes remaining on the fire. His torn hands caressed the weathered sheets tentatively, as if saying a final farewell to his surrogate child. And without hesitation, Don Juan Triumphant fell into the fiery pit, its yellowed, bloodstained pages becoming nothing more than ash.

His life's work burned before him, and he did not care. Nothing mattered anymore, only the deepening hatred of the deceit that condemned him to this eternal nightmare.

He looked away from the fire, retrieving the final object that tied him to his cold tomb. The mask he had made for Christine—the one to make him a desirable husband—remained placidly in his hands. He stared at its simple blank face, lightly tracing over its smooth leathery surface with his fingers. It would make him appear normal, like anybody else. Christine would have had an ordinary husband and an ordinary life had she not abandoned him…

And without a second thought, he threw it into the fire, to join the rest of a life he had forsaken. The mask ignited into a myriad of flames, the soft, flesh-coloured leather blackening by the fire's searing touch.

Erik turned his back on the funeral pyre, visibly forsaking the pitiful tragedy of his former life. No more tears would fall from the empty hollows of his eyes; no more sorrow would be welcomed into his lifeless soul, his black heart stilling itself, its last beat echoing into the dense silence.

It was time for a new life to begin…

A cold breath escaped him as the memory faded into oblivion. Erik returned to the present, setting his harsh recollections aside. His eyes then fell upon Christine; the tangible beauty of her trembling form greatly contrasted the flawless apparition of her within his mind. This version was warm and alive compared to her insubstantial twin. His hand slightly tightened around hers, as if compelling her to look at him.

Lost seconds dwindled into time's infinite domain. He said nothing to her, only stared beyond the sight of her pitiful visage. Tears lay within her wondrous eyes before they shifted and broke from their temporal prison. Like falling stars they cascaded down her face, over the flawless ivory skin, and then to the floor. Erik watched the sight impassively, his mask a cold reflection of his thoughts.

Christine said nothing of the abrasive examination; the fear of angering him compelled her to turn away. A second passed until she felt the familiar touch of his skeletal fingers upon the base of her chin, her head turned and her eyes were forced to face him once more. The gentle hold his touch initiated remained as his eyes studied her in silence. Christine felt as if she were staring into the eyes of a dark god, detached in their pensive scrutiny.

It was then that all silence within the room shattered.

"The mask that I had made to appear as anybody else has been destroyed," Erik spoke at last, his insidious glare emphasizing his point. "I no longer find the need to be counted among the race of men, Christine."

His false bride remained silent, her hollow eyes reflecting his insensitive stare.

Despite his bride's despondent air, Erik remained indifferent, irresolute in his words. "Be ready," he said at length, his unmoved malice borne within each uttered syllable. His yellow eyes lingered upon her ivory face, noting the pain within her wordless expression. He ignored the slight pang of sympathy that stirred within him, as he continued with his wretched censure. "We leave within the hour."

Christine could only watch in growing dismay when he wrenched himself free of her, turning away and closing the massive set of doors behind him. She felt the sadness pierce her still-beating heart, impaling it on a leaden spike of black hatred. It was only after Erik's brusque departure that she allowed her pain to be voiced in a mournful cry of despair.

…

The soiree of Lady Johanna Eden-Descanov was an event that indulged everyone within the capital to attend, though a seldom few were invited to the lady's illustrious fête. Many distinguished ladies balked at the rejection that the Descanov household imparted, leaving only a burgeoning spite for the lady who had captivated the whole of three countries with her timeless beauty.

Despite this, the revelers present ranked from the lowliest baron to the highest prince, even distant members of the royal throne made a gracious appearance to appease the Lady Descanov.

Christine watched in avid fascination at the myriad of faces drew—not only to her—but to the small woman in the center of the room. A crown of dark chestnut curls, aligned with several carefully constructed ruby hairpins, gave the woman the impression of being a foreign empress who honoured each of her admirers with a warm glance, her dark eyes conveying more than mere civility.

The kindness shown was not forced, Christine quietly noted, as she observed her hostess, the slight limp in her gait not detracting her imperious stature, for the lady in question held the grace of a dignified aristocrat, albeit it was merely a fabrication of her true status—the daughter of a highly ranked captain of the British royal navy.

All within the room had the God-given right to scorn her for her lowly birth. But ironically, none came forward to do such, as all were visibly captivated by the powerful aura the diminutive woman emitted. Her slight demure at another's words could make angels weep.

It was no wonder, Christine reflected, that the Lady Johanna had somehow managed to snare a prince as a husband. Gavriil Descanov, though in his fifty-fifth year, according to Marie, still managed to hold the appearance of a man in his mid-thirties. It was no wonder that many women desired the Descanov sons since the elder denied them of his companionship.

Resentment for the captain's daughter's _prize_ had not been quelled over the years, for a few within the room held the slight impression of an ancient envy, long buried under heavy layers of gaudy powder and thick rouge. And yet, the lady who gained such inequitable hatred only smiled, her lovely emerald gown reflecting her benevolent nature. Christine understood the lady's plight all too well, as she, also, was placed in a world in which she did not belong. And yet, it seemed that the Lady Johanna had somehow adjusted to this foreign world of elegant debauchery.

The history behind the prince and his bride was legend. For over the course of three decades, their story had been told, always streaming into different channels of the actual truth. Christine could only surmise the truth, for Marie had been vague in her brief explanation, always expanding the real story for more than what it was.

In spite of this, Christine found that she could not hold the empress at fault for embellishing the truth, for the idea of a man—a prince of the bluest blood—choosing the daughter of a British captain and German immigrant as a wife was beyond realization. Added to the fact that he abducted her after her refusal of his suite at a distant cousin's ball and publicly forced her into marriage on his ship, he had all but waged war between Russia and England for the sake of a woman born below his class, even going as far as forsaking his birthright as a prince.

In all actuality, it seemed highly unlikely that a man—any man—would sacrifice so much to obtain the prize desired, and yet the proof of such lay before her.

Christine looked away from the Lady Descanov, her eyes reluctantly falling upon the man beside of her. She felt Erik slightly stir from her hesitant glance, the distant anger burning deeply within his remote stare.

Even now, after the relentless hours of journeying to this magnanimous hall, Erik remained detached, cold in his bitter silence. His unearthly eyes lingered upon her, however, never deviating from their insidious origin. He had once again hardened his heart against her, leaving only the grim reminiscence of an obsession turned love then quickly melding into indignant anger. She could live a thousand years, a thousand lifetimes and never find a way to assure him of her sincerity, for his dark nature only thrived on the animosity that permeated his godless existence.

Her eyes continued to stare into his as a question arose within her mind: Would she also find the incessant love that the Lady Johanna had apparently been blessed with? The legend of the prince and captain's daughter would, perhaps, forever overshadow what semblance of happiness she and Erik might have in their long, loveless, false marriage. And with that knowledge, Christine inwardly frowned, for it was a story that greatly paralleled theirs.

"Ah, you must be _Monsieur_ and _Madam_ de Maricourt," a faint German-accented voice broke into Christine's thoughts.

Turning her attention away from Erik, Christine saw the Lady Descanov, ornamented with only the resplendent smile that mirrored her delight. "Lady Descanov," Christine demurred, descending into a courtly bow.

Erik merely nodded in acknowledgement.

Seeing her guests bestow her with the general formalities, Lady Johanna turned to Erik, her face undaunted by his imposing stature. "_Monsieur_, I am honoured that you and your wife have attended my soiree tonight."

"Indeed, my lady."

Despite the dismal formality within Erik's words, the Lady Descanov remained poised, impervious to the ominous impression he imparted upon her. "_Monsieur_, may I steal your wife for a few moments? I promise to return her to you before this ridiculous gathering ends."

Yellow eyes looked at the Lady Descanov for a brief moment, as if considering her words to be no more than a pretense. Another moment passed before he finally spoke: "My wife would be honoured," Erik's impassive voice muttered, and he released Christine's gloved hand.

Lady Johanna smiled, subtly ignoring the unease between the couple before her. She gracefully inclined her head in gratitude as she glanced at Christine, her lively brown eyes beckoning for the timid de Maricourt to follow her.

Christine turned to Erik, a hint of reservation hidden within her delicate frame. Erik returned her timidity with a burning incentive for her to depart from his side. "_You will return to me,"_ his eyes seemed to say. Her fearful gaze widened, blindly taking comfort in this as she followed the illustrious Lady Descanov out of the congested sitting room and into the hall.

The music from the small orchestra and mild chatter of people drifted into the brightly lit hallway. Christine observed the minute elegance found within the simplicity of the arched corridor. It appeared that the Lady Descanov's preference in decoration greatly differed from the gaudy upper-class households in Paris. Even more, it seemed to hold the solemnity of the Russian faith.

"I am very happy that you decided to attend my soiree, _madam_," Lady Johanna's voice drifted into the condensed hall.

"It is an honour, Lady Descanov," Christine murmured instinctively, her eyes remaining on a small stained-glass window. "You have a lovely home."

Lady Johanna only smiled, the laughter within her childlike eyes affirming her delight. "Do you think so?" A russet brow arched in amusement. "Gavriil was pleased that I decided to veer away from the tasteless fashion from a '_barbaric western society,'_" she quoted her husband's words with a hint of mirth and then whispered, "It is also easier to maintain a home without so many trinkets lining every room. At least I did not lose many priceless antique vases when my sons were younger." Her eyes warmed. "And I also believe that you have met them already."

Christine looked away from the window, smiling at the Lady Johanna. "Yes, Lord Graf and Lord Alexei were kind enough to offer me their company on a few occasions."

"Indeed." Lady Johanna laughed. "I recall my Alexei speaking quite fondly of you and your husband the last time he was here. He was quite pleased to know that you decided to attend tonight." Her dark brows pierced together in brief consternation. "He and Graf should have been here by now…" She turned her gaze to Christine, her fleeting worry quickly dissipating. "A mother has a tendency to worry over her children, even if they are _supposedly_ old enough to take of themselves."

"_Supposedly_, Johanna?" a rich, languid masculine voice cut in. "You do not know our sons very well, do you?"

Glancing at her husband, Lady Johanna feigned irritation. "They inherit their tardiness and bad qualities from you, I believe." Her smile widened as she turned to Christine. "_Madam_ de Maricourt, allow me to introduce you to my husband, Gavrill."

Christine blanched. Though, it was not for the informality used within the Lady Johanna's introduction, but at the sight of her husband. Cold silvery eyes, the colour of liquid mercury—the same she had seen that terrible night—were looking at her. Her heart quavered within her chest, but it was not in fear of this arcane man's stare, for his eyes were gentle, not cold; soulless in the way _those_ eyes had looked upon her. She could sense no evil in the former prince, only a deepening kindness that allayed her fears.

"_Madam_, it is an honour to meet you at last." The Russian lord bowed in reverence, his illustrious blonde hair—the colour of the waxing moon—glimmered righteously within the soft candlelight. "Please know that you are more than welcome to visit us any time you are in the area."

"Thank you, your highness," Christine demurred under a tremulous breath, praying that her etiquette would not abandon her.

Grey eyes met hers, their silvery gaze filling with laughter. "You honour me with a title I do not deserve, _madam,_" his voice revealed tangible amusement. "Please, I ask that you disregard formality in our household." His gaze shifted to the Lady Johanna. "We are merely Gavriil and Johanna, an old married couple who forgoes the laws of society."

"And we ask that you do the same—at least here," Johanna interjected with a smile.

Christine slightly nodded, conceding at last. "Of course," she said without reservation. "And I am Christine to you."

Gavriil grinned. "I see why my sons—at least Alexei—sings praises of you, Christine." His warm gaze turned to his wife. "Which reminds me; they are here, Johanna. Graf wished to speak with me in the study over something that he claimed to be important."

Johanna gently sighed, looking at her husband with slight concern. "Oh, dear God," the gravity within her tone intensified to a severe level. "You had best see, Gavriil."

"I shall return shortly, I promise," The former prince looked at his wife, then to Christine. "It was a pleasure, Christine. I do hope that you enjoy the evening—and I also plan to speak with your husband, once I see to my son." He gave one final bow to them before taking his leave, his glorious exodus leaving a respectable impression on Christine.

Turning her attention away from the former prince of the Descanov line, Christine noticed the slight look of unease taint Johanna's flawless features. Her vibrant brown eyes dulled, leaving only the remainder of the simple innocence she maintained. It was as if a great worry had weighed itself heavily upon her, the tired, battle-worn expression deepening into an intense frown.

But in spite of her show of weakness, Johanna turned to her guest and smiled, albeit unconvincingly. "I do apologize for this," she whispered, meeting Christine's concerned gaze. "It is just that lately my son…" Her frown deepened. "It is nothing, I am sure," she said, as if casting aside her own, personal doubt.

Christine looked at her, nonplussed.

A semblance of Johanna's notable air returned. "I fear that I have an inclination to worry over the slightest thing, especially when it concerns my children," she reflected pensively. "But come. I would like to speak with the lady who defied death." Her smile widened into a devious grin. "It seems that we may have something in common." And with this, the Lady Johanna opened a door in the hall, her steady gaze bidding Christine to precede her.

Without hesitation, Christine obeyed her hostess without question, silently retreating into a well-lit library. Her eyes widened at the sight of the massive room. Volumes of books—that undoubtedly numbered in the thousands—lined the walls; each placed into a specific category and numbered in gold ink. Ancient maps of cities and provinces were also present, some of which were framed and used to please an observing eye.

The young prima donna stared at the elegant beauty the library offered. Never before had she the chance—or even privilege—to be in a room that held so much knowledge, even the tsar's great library at the palace seemed to dim in comparison to the grandeur that the meager Descanov household maintained. In truth, she was overwhelmed by the magnificence of it all, lost in a sea of ancient knowledge that had been condensed into fine leather-bound volumes.

"I see that you have taken an interest in books," Johanna said placidly. "These are my husband's books, which have been in his family for countless generations." She pulled a crimson volume from a shelf and idly flicked through the pages, then showed Christine an ivory page.

"Sixteen ninety-three," Christine murmured, her azure eyes squinting at the small, delicate print.

"The Descanov family has been around for centuries. Even since the beginning of time, it seems," Johanna said as she returned the book to its rightful place. She looked away from the mass of books to Christine, her gaze thoughtful. "I have been a part of that family for over thirty years, and yet it seems like only yesterday that I met Gavriil." Her gentle eyes then moved to the wooden cane in her hand.

"He was such an arrogant man—full of dreams and desires to conquer the world…or maybe to conquer only me…" her voice trailed off, her gaze returning to Christine. "I am sure that your husband also made you a captive to his crazed whims. We women usually turn to the darker side of things, especially when it concerns our hearts. We are true prisoners to love and all of its wondrous tortures."

Christine gaped at the Lady Johanna's shrewd assessment. It seemed as if the woman had the ability to look into one's mind and find the truth deeply nestled into its darker, hidden alcoves. Inside, Christine felt herself exposed, the truth of her situation finally brought into the harsh, unforgiving light of day. And yet, the lady had spoken of her imprisonment fondly, as if she, too, had endured a similar fate. It almost made Christine confess her plight—almost.

"You must truly love your husband," Christine said at last, secretly hoping to move the conversation away from her hidden conflict.

Warm brown eyes lightened at Christine's words. "To be quite honest, I did not at first. I am sure that Marie or some other lady has told you of my and Gavriil's story." She did not allow Christine to answer, as she continued. "I was a captain's daughter of Her Majesty's royal navy. My mother was a German peasant who compelled my father to stay part of the time in her native country. We lived in Germany for years until moving to England."

Christine slowly nodded, comprehending Johanna's brief explanation. Her admission answered the question of the German accent, but it did not answer how she and Gavriil truly met. And she found herself pleading for the lady to continue. "So the rumours are true about…"

"About my abduction?" Johanna answered for her, a knowing grin laced within her question. "Yes, they are quite true. Gavriil was irate by my refusal of his suite—which was quite apparent at the time, mind you—and made preparations to abduct me and drag me all of the way to Russia.

"I suppose it was a blind attempt to make me come to my senses, since no other woman had ever refused his wicked charms." She laughed merrily at her words. "I still have the ropes he tied me with, if you would care to see them one day."

"Perhaps I will," Christine returned, laughing quietly. It was truly a relief to be around one who knew only too well of the arrogant will of a man, his desires hidden behind a mask of insanity.

Johanna nodded; her mouth opening to speak until a quiet knock on the library door interrupted her. "Yes?" she asked in a calm voice as a maid appeared in the doorway.

"My lady, I am sorry to interrupt you, but one of your guests has requested to see you. She said that it was of dire importance that she speaks with you now."

"Of course," Johanna murmured quietly. "I will be there momentarily." She turned to Christine and gave her an apologetic look. "I will return shortly, Christine."

Christine accepted Johanna's abrupt departure with a silent nod and watched the glorious lady leave the room in a flurry of haste, duly noticing that she was once again abandoned by the affable comfort that dispelled the despondency that dwelled within her. All evening, she had been paraded around another insidious circle of mindless fools, although she was no longer the cruel focus of their wayward attention—the Lady Johanna had successfully dispelled any possibility of that.

Nevertheless, she felt dismay for her current situation. The coldness in Erik's callous touch only left the bleak reminder of his anger, as the faint traces of a bruise, tender and soft to the touch, lay idly upon her tiny wrist.

Without thinking, she removed the white glove from the mark and looked at its disturbing colouration. The outer portion of it had lessened, leaving a faint blemish of yellow as the rest in the center remained a dull shade of violet. Christine inwardly grimaced at it, but subtly understood that Erik had not meant to cause the contusion intentionally. Had he realized that he was harming her, he would have released her before he had the opportunity to cause further damage. It would be sacrilege to have a flawed wife.

The truth of her revelation made her frown. Erik would never see her as anything other than a model of perfection, for he could never find it within himself to except any less, not even from a woman who clearly cared for _him_.

Christine closed her eyes as her traitorous heart pounded madly on its own volition within the dark confines of her chest. Her addled mind finally came into focus, adjusting itself to the temporary darkness that enshrouded it. All thought and reason were cast aside when Erik's daunting image appeared. Her heart trembled as the vision manifested itself; the figure dark and imposing in its wondrous presence. Even now, he was with her, torturing her mind with his condemning art. Erik's haunting voice disturbed her in a way that was almost blissful, yet utterly vexing at the same time.

She did not understand what it was that intrigued her so. Perhaps it was merely the hypnotic pull of his voice, the dark illustrious tone lulling her into complete supplication to such a divine instrument. And much to her sorrow, she knew that she would always obey whatever command derived from it, even blindly follow it into the stygian depths of Hell if it bade her to.

It was then the sudden sensation of vertigo overcame her as the dark signs of dismay clouded her delicate face, imprisoning it within a mask of horror. Her troubled gaze turned once more to the finely furnished collection of novels, her eyes desperately trailing over each labeled volume for a sense of solace; her awareness and insight deafened by the strident call of the dread that raced through her blood, as the library door closed silently behind her; she was no longer alone.

"Ah, your beauty precedes you, _Madam_ de Maricourt," a hollow yet vaguely familiar voice echoed within the growing darkness.

The voice was guttural, disturbingly concise in its diaphanous timbre. It held the amiable dignity that Gavriil Descanov's had upon meeting her, and yet betrayed any familiarity with its empty greeting. The voices, though similar, were utterly diverse.

Christine remained inert, forbidding herself to turn and face her addresser, for within her mind she could painfully identify the face with the voice. Cold silver eyes pierced her mind's eye with a brooding intensity that shook the foundations of Heaven. Earth swayed at the darkening pull of it, shifting forward and then back into a throng utter madness. Hell, or rather its maker, was here.

Another moment faded into the darkness, the cold timidity that swelled within her heart compelling her to turn. And much to her eternal dismay, she gave in to the shadows, turning to face the nameless entity that plagued her dreams since that fatal night. Her eyes willingly fell upon the nameless figure, surprised to see the face that owned the voice, for in a demon's place stood the figure of a man, amorally handsome with shoulder-length white-blonde hair that gleamed like silver moonlight upon his broad shoulders. The pale, rigid face that met hers was perfect, wondrously flawless, as if it were carved by a sinfully divine hand. He was a god made flesh, a striking devil with a man's visage.

"_Monsieur_?" she replied barely above a whisper as the horror dominated her awe-inspired gaze.

The luminous eyes, so unlike the pale yellow hue that inflamed her beloved mentor's, disturbed her, shifting through her as if to find the remnants of her tattered soul. The haunting look, like one bereaved by the demise of a tragic love, bore deeply into her, penetrating her veiled thoughts. The pale face of a beauty marked death regarded her quietly, its insipid gaze falling upon her trembling form with unmistakable pleasure.

"Has _madam_ lost her ability of speech?" his gentle teasing reproached her with mocking innocence. "Come now, your voice transcends beyond all notions of silence, like an angel who has wandered too far from the sight of Heaven." His imposing smile lingered. "I have witnessed it myself."

The former prima donna gaped at him, her mouth vacant of speech.

A cold and dismal silence then fell; unmoving, unwavering as time shifted slowly between them. Christine remained where she was, however, her cool distance a bitter forewarning of her present restlessness as the figure goaded her to speak. And though she felt compelled to obey his subtle command, she stilled her traitorous tongue.

Silver eyes slowly measured the disturbing silence as the heady reproach of the angel's silent censure remained. She would not speak, would not break or even slightly bend to appease the darkness that entreated her. Her blatant disregard of civility was almost appalling yet intriguing at the same time.

And with this, her tormentor silently commended her with a dull nod. "I see that my manners have evaded me, _madam_. Perhaps I should give the common courtesy that we brutish Russians are notorious for: I am Lord Bastien Ivánovich Drazlovsky." He bowed to her, his stoic features holding a slight impression of intrigue.

Christine stared at him, her eyes never leaving his as her heart convulsed madly within her chest. His face, though retaining the imitation of kindness, only fabricated the underlying truth: the searing fascination that burned within his eyes only confirmed her darkest fear—he saw through her opaque façade, grasping what truly lay underneath the cold mirror's surface. He weighed her soul, his calculative mind fully knowing what she did not realize herself.

_Oh, my God. He knows_, she thought dejectedly, waiting for the denunciation that would inevitably follow in its terrible wake.

The insidious grin widened upon his ashen face. It was a perfect contrast to the timid, skeletal grin that Erik sometimes revealed when pleased with her. Christine's heart twisted in pain at the thought of him. Dear God, where was he when she needed him? Why could he not deliver her from this unending torment? Where was her beloved Angel of Music?

And then she remembered that he was in the gallery, ignorant of her silent pleas of deliverance. Christine's lovely face fell, becoming a bitter illustration of despair. She would be forever damned to wallow in a hell of her own making. Erik would not save her now—no one would.

"I see that my presence disturbs you," the lifeless words echoed quietly, subtly forcing Christine to abandon her morose thoughts.

"My lord, I apologize," Christine returned mechanically, her stale voice barely above a whisper. "I did not expect anyone to see me, here." Her eyes turned to the large expanse of the room, and then returned their fettered gaze upon him. She stood silent for a moment, staring at him as she would a rabid creature before reluctantly extending her hand in civil greeting. "You do me a great honour by your presence, my lord," she demurred, bowing to him in timid reverence.

"Oh, no, dear lady, it is you who honour me." And with this he moved forward, taking one of her small hands in his. His metallic gaze lingered upon her, tracing her timorous figure, committing every flaw, every detail of her being to memory. His bare fingers moved over the glove that concealed her bruised wrist before his lips descended, falling deftly over the veiled knuckles of her hand.

Christine stilled herself at his touch, despising the concrete domination of her injured hand. "My lord," her protest only came as a soft whisper, the impression of his lips faintly remaining upon her.

"_Madam_, you cannot imagine how I have longed to see you…" His hold on her hand intensified as his silvery eyes bore deeply into hers. His voice lowered several degrees as he continued. "It seems that I have crossed the seas of time, if only to see the one who escaped oblivion and survived the cold embrace of Death."

"My lord, I was not the only one who survived the accident." She slightly frowned, her azure darkening to a fathomless shade of indigo. "Erik—my husband—also survived. He was the one who saved me," she quickly added, hoping to derail any further conversation with him.

"I suppose it would not be a difficult feat for any _common_ man to save the life of an angel," he replied blandly. "Though I doubt a loving husband would do any less." His words fell into the stagnant air, his hand abruptly falling from hers as the library doors opened.

"Bastien!" Johanna exclaimed, her vibrant eyes riveting over him with sincere welcome. "I did not realize… My God, you have finally come home!" she cried, a certain degree of delight within her tone. "Your father will be so very happy to see you—have you seen him yet?"

"No, my lady, I have not."

Johanna ignored the coldness within his voice. "He is in the study with your brother." She placed a gloved hand upon his arm. "Your father would like to speak to you, Bastien. It has been five years…" she pleaded, a sad note within her dulcet voice.

"I realize that, Lady Descanov. However, I fear that I must disappoint my father; I have other obligations to attend to this evening. Please feel free to relay my regrets to him."

"But, Bastien—"

"It is also good to see that you are in better health, lady. I had heard of your unfortunate accident while in the Carpathians," Drazlovsky said irreverently, then turned to Christine. "_Madam_, it was truly an honour," he murmured quietly, bowing to her with reverent grace. "We will meet again," his dull eyes promised her.

Christine said nothing, subtly understanding the prophetic words uttered. Her expression conveyed a reserved smile, veiling the growing horror under its opaque façade. "Indeed, my lord," she faintly whispered, feeling his serpentine gaze upon her, locking, imprisoning her with its possessive hold.

"Farewell, _madam_." And with this he bowed to both ladies, leaving them with only the cold remnants of his abrasive departure.

An awkward silence fell between the former prima donna and the Lady Descanov as they stared at the library's closed entrance, the cold animosity faintly remaining in the silent room. Johanna shook her dark head, a perfect sign of utter defeat. Her expression conveyed the tired weakness, as if age were finally settling in to her youthful form.

"Oh, Bastien…" Johanna lamented, a sorrowful sigh escaping her, leaning heavily against her cane. She was silent for a moment, and then turned to Christine. "I apologize for his coldness, Christine. Had I known he was here, I would not have left you alone," she said in a regretful whisper. "He can be rather…intimidating," she expressed at length.

Seeing the frustration in Johanna's pained expression, Christine gave the lady a considerate smile. "He never offended me, merely surprised me by his presence." Her smile slightly widened. "I did not realize that you had another son."

Johanna blanched at Christine's misconception. "He is not my son, Christine." Her mournful gaze moved to tiredly the cane. "Though he is Gavriil's," the words came out in a penitent whisper.

Realization dawned upon Christine, compelling her to acknowledge that the former prince had a liaison before meeting Johanna, for the man who haunted her dreams appeared to be only a decade younger than Erik himself. She could have almost easily mistaken the prince and his son as siblings than father and child.

What twisted design prompted such madness? It seemed as if she were in an elaborate play with no direction, no guidance on where the story was going or would eventually lead, the outcome ambiguous, hidden from her knowledge.

What had she agreed to when she vowed to become Erik's bride? The question itself only partially answered the listless insanity that plagued her troubled mind. And sadly, she knew that this little drama would only end in tragedy—her tragedy. But what more could she expect? Fate had never been kind enough to offer her any comfort or peace for her losses.

But of course, could she expect any less?

…

The carriage ride to the palace was enveloped in cold silence, the derisive unease between husband and wife never leaving the quiet space of their coach.

Christine cradled her gloved hands in her lap, her lower lip pierced in subtle consternation. She did not look at Erik, her conflicted thoughts ignoring his ominous shadow as the quiet reign of apprehension clouded any rational thought. The vision of those eyes—the haunted look within them—remained, vexing her. It was as if those eyes had recognized her, though from another time, another place, and strangely, from another life.

It was unnerving to consider these deviant thoughts, for in all reason, she could not remember ever seeing him until now. The vague yet discernable feeling that troubled her gave her an odd sense of understanding, inevitably finding a broken answer that she had innocently sought for since entering a callous world of pain and death.

Nevertheless, she was left in the darkness to dwell on her present misery, albeit not alone. Erik's golden eyes had not left her since entering the carriage, his idle stare remaining solely upon her tense form, its unnerving consistency beginning to tear a thread in her silent composure.

She did not tell Erik of her unfortunate encounter with the Lord Drazlovsky. It was best not to indulge the limitless anger that consumed him already. Even now, she felt his burning stare accusing of her careless words about his mask. Christine immediately set the grave memory aside, the cruel impact it left subsiding, much like the dull ache of her bruised wrist. And much to her dismay it seemed that Erik himself was a lingering pain that would never fully leave her. Yet strangely she realized that she did not want it to.

Looking at him now she noticed a slight sense of compassion that rendered him almost…human. The hellish twin stars that burned beyond the infinite depths of his eyes seemed to be the only source of light within the dark carriage. She had not deceived herself or anyone else when she said that his eyes could only be clearly seen in the shadows, for they glowed with an intense brilliance that imparted both fear and awe at the same time. And she knew that she could rest forever under his vigilant gaze; he dispelled all worries and fears that came with the impending fall of night.

A gentle sigh escaped her and she looked at him once more. "Erik," her voice echoed his name in a hollow whisper, and noticed his subtle nod for her continue. A shuddered breath escaped her as she compelled herself to speak the question that had been in the back of her mind since leaving Johanna's company. "How much longer…" she paused, unsure of whether to continue or leave her question to be unanswered.

"Continue, my dear. You seem to have lost yourself in mid-thought," Erik rejoined acerbically.

Christine flushed, despite her reasonable uncertainty, but finally gave in to his caustic coercions. "It is only that I was wondering how much longer we would stay in the tsar's court. I realize that we cannot be his guests for ever, and that we will have to move on one day," she added quickly, praying to dispel any suspicion from her words.

Erik remained silent for a moment; the brooding anticipation that emanated from his looming figure permeated the small confines of the carriage. His unyielding stare smoldered with what could be considered as vague wariness, as if he knew what had happened in the library.

However, in spite of his possible doubts of the validity within her words, he answered her without giving any hint of the suspicions that were concealed within the shadows of his mind. "We will stay at the tsar's court for as long as it pleases me, Christine," he said simply, a dark finality in his words. "Now rest. We will return to the palace by dawn."

The cold conviction within his words made her inwardly shudder, for his concise lexis was not a subtle request, but a harsh demand that would not be denied, and she realized the inevitability of her own damning actions as the deep penetrating gaze that she knew so well bade her to do her master's will. And without question, she obeyed.

Azure eyes lingered upon the imposing shadow for another moment before closing, allowing the darkness to usurp all conscientious thought. And thus the angel known as Christine Daaé-de Maricourt, former prima donna and alleged wife of madman, fell into the blissful ignorant slumber of a child, wondrously unaware that one of the darkness kept silent vigil over her innocent form.

Yellow eyes watched the slow rise and fall of Christine's chest; the elaborate satin that concealed her flawless breast resonating only the peaceful desire to escape reality and abandon all thoughts of pain and despair.

In truth, he realized that she was quite beautiful, especially in the fall of a gentle yet tremulous sleep that Hypnos himself would be envious of. She slept like one of the glorious dead; her alabaster features a statue of finely sculpted marble. Dark hair, though cleverly pulled away from her lovely face, had inadvertently come undone, falling gracefully against the ivory skin. It was a perfect contrast of Christine's dual nature: a white angel who so willingly succumbed to the growing darkness that enshrouded her, consuming her inner light, and making her part of the creature that inspired her heavenly downfall.

Erik could not be more pleased by such a providential outcome, though he doubted that God—or any god, for that matter—had anything to do with his good fortune. He had acquired all of his desires by his flawless calculations and the innate ingenuity of his ingenious mind. He had gained not only the favour of a powerful emperor but also the possession of something he so desperately desired: Christine.

Even now, he realized that she was his…as she would always be. Nothing could take her away from him—_nothing_, he vowed. The abject truth behind his one careless error only brought an onslaught of self-hatred and loathing for his brilliant omission—the error itself only the cold fact that he had once given her to a witless boy who realized only too late that she did not truly belong to him; even Christine secretly knew that her release was temporary, for the reckless actions of an attempted murder made her liberation of a dead husband void, inevitably making her his bride once more. The die had been cast, and she was forced to live with the consequences of her actions. Christine would live, breathe, and die with him without any hope of deliverance by a divine hand.

And with this, Erik considered his present dilemma. Christine's vexation, though clearly veiled, was still apparent, albeit only to him. She had held herself well during the Descanov soiree, the remnants of their previous quarrel not swaying the gentle, imperceptible façade she so masterfully constructed. There was no sign of agitation, no fragment of bitter spite for the cruelty he had imparted upon her. She retained only the illusion of a besotted wife when she held onto his arm throughout introductions.

In spite of this, however, Erik knew that something, or rather someone, had clearly upset her after leaving his side. He had noticed the blanched expressions on both Christine and the Lady Descanov the moment they returned to the main foyer. And though both held the impression of gaiety, it was evident that something was amiss; Christine's overwrought demeanor and tensed grasp on his arm only confirmed his suspicions.

But what had upset his wife, he knew not, nor did he intend to question her over it—not at this time. He would wait, knowing that she would come and bear her heart to him, confessing her worries and fears as she had so many times before. A twisted smile then came to his lips. Even in times of great need Christine turned to her angel, finding a comforting solace that replaced her growing despair. And though he still felt only bitterness towards her, he knew he could not deny her a short reprieve from her troubled life, if only for a brief moment.

A gentle beam of moonlight poured in through the carriage window, its stolid light falling caustically over Christine's dormant figure. Erik stared at the solitary beam with vague interest, aware that the light not only illuminated the flawless ivory column of her throat, but heightened it, intensified the fragile beauty before him. Christine represented the gothic splendour that haunted his artistic mind. And he realized that he would never be free of the child who naively linked herself to him. She was his, forever, whether she wished to be or not.

And thus he turned his insightful gaze away from her, unable to look upon the frail creature that pervaded every thought within his mind. Days would pass without his knowledge; the visible instance of time that had elapsed was spent solely upon Christine and his music—the two coinciding into a blissful, beautiful collaboration that gave him the means to exist. It was a deadly alliance—his two loves—and yet they could not be separated by any means of his infinite imagination.

The tsar's request was a petty diversion compared to Erik's true endeavor. Christine was naïve in her belief that he lived only to please their host. And he would allow her to believe in that false illusion, if only to serve his secret objective of creating a paradoxical existence that suited both their needs: she needed his guidance and security and he needed her for the inspiration she secretly gave him.

A gloved hand moved into the dark folds of his cloak, retrieving a set of folded papers. Erik glanced at the tattered sheets in his hand, the yellowed edges worn by many hours of endless labour. And despite his efforts that merely endured, falling into the stygian abyss of endless nights and dreamless wanderings, he found that his inspiration only came by the slight sound of Christine's breathing, her peaceful slumber an outlet for his music.

Even now as he traced the inked notes under a gloved finger, he felt the power, the emotion, and the sheer veracity within his work. It was a new creation—one that would surpass the insane brilliance that _Don Juan Triumphant_ had once resonated. There would be no doubt that his work would usurp even the greatest of opéras. Gounod's _Faust_ would be a trivial illustration of the grandeur this new work would emanate.

A twisted thought came to his mind as he returned the notes within the secure confines of his cloak. Content in the security of his newest work he returned his gaze to the sleeping figure. Erik stared at Christine with a profound intensity that burned with an unnamed passion, which was too deep, too dangerous to understand.

Within the darkness he could clearly see the outline of her beautiful face; the lovely contours of her features remained untouched, undimmed by the pale moonlight. In truth, her enigmatic beauty was enhanced by it, and Erik found himself once again staring at the lovely mortal that had intrigued him since he first noticed her. She had unintentionally ensnared him with her innocence and naïve charm.

But it was only a mask, a mere fabrication of what she truly was: a deceitful angel who only cared for the ignorant trivialities that the world carelessly offered. She desired only the illusion of beauty while the true version of it resided inside of her. If only she could find it within herself to look…

Erik closed his eyes at the bitter thought, the feral yellow orbs eclipsed by the hollow sockets that held them. It was useless to consider—to even hope—that the light, coy smile she so often gave him was real. It was impossible to believe that she so willingly touched him, secretly wanting his cold dead hand to hold hers. The timidity within her stance and the shy blushes that appeared quite often upon her alabaster countenance were not real, she was merely playing a part.

But even so, he realized that a part himself still wanted it to be real, that she could somehow abandon her pragmatic thoughts and accept him for what he was. But it was too late for that, he sadly realized. Her part in the betrayal, though still questionable, remained as a grim reminder of what could never be.

And as he gazed upon the angel who had so callously wronged him, he saw himself strangely reflected within her angelic visage, the transparent likeness of an intangible yet discernible love covered by a thin layer of powder and rouge. Of course, the sensible part of his mind reasoned that it was merely an illusion, brought on by the pale light of an apathetic moon.

…

**Author's Note: Words cannot even begin to express how sorry I am for not updating. I realize that people have been wondering whether I would continue this or not, and all I can say is that I have no plans to abandon it, not when I am so close to having it finished. This story will be completed, one way or another.**

**I will now explain the reasons for my long absence. First of all, my computer has been an absolute devil. I cannot even login to my e-mail account without it causing problems. I was hesitant to upload anything when it acted as such. But now I have an alternate means of posting my work.**

**And now for my other reason for not being online… This is rather difficult for me to explain, but I shall since everyone deserves to know why I have been gone for so long. I have lost someone very dear to me, not too long ago, and the pain of it has been almost unbearable. It hurts to know someone you care for can be gone within an instant. I just never realized how true that could be until I lost my father. **

**But I believe he would want me to continue living, and so I shall. Again, I apologize for not updating. It has just been so hard to... **

**Anyway, I have posted a semi-long chapter. I hope that it makes up for my absence. Also, I have posted a one-shot, which has nothing to do with _The Mask's Lament. _Though I will confess it is one of my favourite pieces I have written.**

**Also, since I wish to keep these author's notes short from now on, I have posted a link on my website concerning the questions regarding this story. I have gone—or rather, tried to go—in depth with the answers and explanations. The link is viewable on my main page, just click the FAQ icon if you want to see if I have a question answered. Otherwise, I will be adding to the FAQ as new questions arise. I will be sure to inform if new information is added with each post. I should have the link open sometime tonight.**

**Thank you, guys, again for all of the wonderful reviews.**


	14. Chapter Thirteen: A Forbidden Promise

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Thirteen.

The faint traces of the dying sunlight fell heavily against the glass windowpanes, penetrating them with a blinding intensity that made all within its path flinch from its callous beams. A myriad of colours poured in through the transparent panes, embellishing the room with its overstated light.

But in spite of the harsh radiance it imparted, its daunting effect did not go unappreciated. Christine, though squinting against its blinding rays, smiled as the light fell against her, warming her soul from the many months of cold isolation.

A semblance of life had finally returned to the barren Russian landscape, giving it the promise of a temporal existence before winter settled upon its rugged terrain once more. Spring had finally established itself upon the vast empire, ravishing it with the glorious splendour of a new life.

A new life…

Christine slightly frowned at the thought. It was difficult to believe—or even imagine—that her life, which was once considered ordinary, almost pedestrian, could change so dramatically within such a small amount of time. In truth, she felt as if she were living another life, her former one discarded, irrelevant to her now.

Becoming the bride of an architect whose talents spanned across the limitless borders of the infinite had almost diminished the remainder of the child who lived solely for music and music alone.

For as each day passed, Christine lost another piece of the simple existence she once cherished. Even being within the presence of Erik, she could not detain the feelings of despair that would, at times, consume her. She was beginning to lose herself, as she was no longer Christine Daaé, but Christine Daaé-de Maricourt—her true surname never used in the presence of the court, or even in private, for that matter—the bride of the tsar's new favourite.

And as such, she remained with him, the ever-faithful bride of a man who sought reason to hide his face from the world. Erik's true nature would always be concealed under the mask whose faded porcelain and rigid cracks could only emit the fallacious image that many undoubtedly had within their minds.

Women were awed by his presence, as men were no less daunted by the imposing manner that completed such an enigmatic figure. It was like staring at a nameless shadow, the mystery and fear it evoked only leaving the thrilling, yet enticing, feeling of dread as all stared upon the shrouded being.

And so, it had remained as such for the past few months. Even as spring brought life once more to the cold, dismal halls of the Gatchina Palace, the overlaying sense of dismay melded itself among the illustrious domain of the empire.

That dismay, though at times ambiguous, left only the shattered remnants of an unattainable release that she so desperately sought. It seemed as if the world itself was on fire, where she could only watch it seethe and smolder from a helpless distance. The ill-fated meeting with a devil had caused her present pain, her new dilemma threatening to overcome her with each passing day.

For as the weeks passed, she and Erik attended many soirees and parties given by the supreme benefactors of society. It was out of obligation, only—the autonomy and freedom of choice inevitably taken away from them.

And though it did not concern Erik that he had a massive congregation observing him with curious and appalled stares, it unnerved Christine. At times, she would almost abandon all thoughts of courtesy and polite etiquette, just to mutter how much she loathed being within their presence. She inwardly despised how they could maneuver their way around, subtly showing their veiled disgust of a couple not borne of their class.

She had witnessed it many times, especially during the outing the Baroness Pavlov invited them to. The Lady Ekaterina, though vaguely seen in the company, had glared at her during the interval, her icy gaze never moving from its fixed position.

Nevertheless, there were other concerns—more important and less trivial—that her unease with the Lady Ekaterina was a minor problem. After her meeting with the oldest of the Descanov clan, Christine found that at _every_ meeting or party she attended, she would see the Lord Drazlovsky.

During the first few gatherings Christine stayed by Erik's side, never leaving him as she helplessly fell victim to the cold stare of another. Overlying senses of guilt moved over her during these unnerving times, for she could not—would not—tell Erik about the probing stares she received. It was difficult not to confide in him, but she inwardly knew that he would react in a violent manner, where someone would undoubtedly lose his head over the infraction.

In truth, Christine knew Erik was a jealous man, even when he despised her; he refused to allow her any privacy with another man. It went against everything he said to her, but also reflected the possessive nature that made him so inherently unique.

She frowned at the memory of it. Had it only been last night that such an instance occurred? Her frown deepened and the invisible lines on her forehead furrowed as the memories overcame her present thoughts…

_The spring cotillion that the Lady Lomonosov—apparently a descendent of the infamous literary giant—graciously held with the incentive of having the most memorable fête of the season. A wealth of the highest names in the Russian court—and also a few notable figures from various provinces—attended without hesitation. And although the tsar and his family made themselves scarce, his new favourites, _Monsieur _and _Madam _de Maricourt, attended in the imperial family's stead._

_The harrowing plea upon Marie's pallid face had all but coerced Christine in accepting the lady's invitation. Truly, it was becoming more difficult to refuse or even reject any request offered. And to her eternal dismay, Christine found that she was becoming too wary of drawing so much attention to herself. _

_It was not because she did not wish to be seen, or share in any entertainment, but rather the desire to disappear from the unfriendly eyes that viewed her so callously. She felt as if the prying stares were only focused on her and never upon Erik; that for some unknown reason her presence both disturbed and caused trepidation in the lives of the courtiers, especially for those who dared to look upon her._

_For it was within the ninth hour, that her true fear revealed itself at last… _

_A bout of laughter drew itself around the wondrously-lit ballroom as dancers pirouetted themselves across the dance floor. Like graceful ballerinas, they made no sound, only their movements and theirs cast shadows against the immaculate ivory walls revealed any sign that they moved at all. _

_Christine watched this in growing fascination, vaguely recalling similar movements from the _Corps de Ballet_. She slightly frowned from the recollection, as an onslaught of old memories, most too painful to recall, came to mind. In her sadness, she did not notice the graceful movements of the dancers, or even the abrupt absence of her husband._

_She did not feel the temporal distortion as Erik left her side, some inquisitive lord taking him to the other half of the room, only to be in the company of other lords as curious as the first._

_The revelers who attended the cotillion did not only spread the latest rumours that derived from the capital, but also divulged in other pleasantries, such as the newest premiere opera at the Marinsky or how the city duma would see to the new state laws, issued by the tsar himself. _

_There were many such officials in attendance tonight, Christine thought as she glanced at the staid figure of Erik whose imposing cloak graciously draped itself across the marble floor like a swathe of ebony velvet. No one seemed to take notice of his daunting presence, however, only those attention within the small circle around him seemed to invoke any true response from Erik. Even the young Vásya Sokólov, a new member of the Court of Justice, held the look of intrigue as Erik spoke, answering the myriad of questions asked of him. _

_His overwhelming image only furthered his insipid responses as many hastily drew themselves away from him, apparently making excuses of previous engagements, even the lord who introduced Erik to his circle could only withstand such a disheartening figure for so long before making the apologetic excuse to leave. _

_Christine slightly smiled, inwardly applauding Erik for his ability to intimidate people. His social skills, though highly refined, could only extend the comfort of others for only a short amount of time before they found it imperative to escape such cold indifference, for in truth, Erik had the power and grace to reduce even kings and emperors to mere peasants. Even she felt below him at times…_

_Her smile faded as the dark thoughts of doubt caused her ebony brows to crease in apparent consternation. Would Erik _always _consider her to be below him, as nothing more than an object to criticize and demean? Or would he see that she was his equal—in all ways—and accept her as he once had? Even more, would he _ever _forgive her for the pain she had caused him? If only she could erase those times she had spurned him, feared him for her life…If only… _

_A shadow moved across her vision, disrupting her thoughts. Christine looked away from the tiled floor as she noticed a dark cape move before her. Her eyes moved upward, as utter disappointment overcame her from the sight._

"_My Lord Drazlovsky," Christine bowed to the silent figure._

"Madam _de Maricourt," he returned, taking her hand and placing a light kiss upon her gloved knuckles. "Are you well this evening?"_

"_Yes, I am, my lord. I trust that you are in good health, as well?" she asked with a forced smile, subtly releasing her hand from his._

_His silver eyes riveted over her. "Indeed I am, _madam_. Though I believe I would be in much better spirits if you joined me on the balcony. The stars are rather inviting this night, and I would be loath to view them alone…"_

_Christine stiffened at his words, inwardly refusing to follow him. "But, my lord—"_

"_But nothing, _Madam _de Maricourt," he muttered under his stale breath, his dull eyes bidding her to be silent. "You have been abandoned by everyone, and I told you that we _would _meet again. Would you dare show disrespect to one who only desires to make your acquaintance?" Seeing her firm expression waver, he continued. "I only wish to befriend you. I would _never _harm you. Please…" He extended his free hand to the closed set of French doors._

_With a moment's hesitation, Christine nodded and accepted his invitation, vaguely noticing the stares she received as she walked into the shadows and the darkness of the night._

_Her slow movements went unheeded as she blindly followed the Lord Drazlovsky onto the balcony, her mind slightly fixed upon the thoughts that pervaded the oblivious crowd inside. It was difficult to believe that she would become the center of such madness. Like dancing on a precipice she had come dangerously close to the edge, almost falling to her doom. The foreshadowing of such an unwanted fate burned within the back of her mind—the idea of surviving was merely an illusion, brought on by her naïve hopes. She could not escape the cruelty within this new being, as she could not escape Erik. _

_And with this, she turned to him, eyeing him with hidden suspicion. "My lord," she began, but instantly felt his fingers fall across her lips, quietly silencing her._

"_Say nothing," the guttural voice answered as the stillness of the night fell deftly against them. A moment passed before he spoke once more, his dark words only a gentle whisper. "The silence becomes you, dear lady." His eyes bore into hers, as if compelling her to understand his meaning. "And yet your voice…" His words diminished into the dark nothingness that surrounded them._

_Christine's dark brows pursed together. "My voice?" she whispered under his gloved fingers._

_Silver eyes stared at her, their metallic depths weighing the validity within her words. "I have never heard anything so divine, _madam_. You could envy the sirens themselves with both your voice _and _your beauty."_

"_My lord, please," Christine murmured, taking a cautious step away from him. "I feel…rather uncomfortable with these settings. Please, I must return—"_

"—_To your adoring crowd?" An ashen brow rose in question. "Or to your husband?" he asked with a profound deftness that unnerved her. _

"_Please." Christine turned away from him, adamant to leave to return to the safety she found inside, to the safety she found in Erik. "I must return."_

_A strong hand prevented her from leaving. "You will not be missed," the rigid words echoed in cold assurance, but lightened when he said, "Come. I wanted to share the stars with you. I would show dishonour if I did not fulfill my word to you."_

_Despite the show of his alleged dishonour, Christine persisted in returning. "My lord, I cannot—"_

"_Bastien._ _My name is Bastien," he repeated, then added, "I would hope that you would show me the courtesy of using my Christian name instead of my title."_

"_But—"_

"_And I would return that courtesy and call you by your given name." He took her hand in his, ignoring the silent tremors it emitted. "Please, I implore that you do me this one honour."_

_Christine frowned, not knowing how to refuse him. She gently sighed, giving in to his desire with a reluctant nod. _

"_Very good," he commended her, then turned to the stars. He said nothing for a moment, only looked at the myriad spheres of light, his hand clasping tightly around hers. "Do you see that cluster of stars, there?" He pointed with a gloved finger. Seeing her nod, he continued. "That is the constellation Draco, and this…" His finger moved to a lower, more obscure constellation. "…Is Andromeda—the chained lady of the skies."_

"_It is beautiful," Christine found herself say, as her eyes widened in wonder. How long had she been within out the gentle confidence of the stars? All she had ever known—upon her arrival at the Opéra—was darkness and fear. _

"_Indeed it is," Bastien replied, his attention fixed once more upon her awed features. "Do you know the story behind them?"_

"_No. I am afraid that I do not," Christine answered, her eyes moving away from the stars and onto him. "Will you tell me?" _

"_If you wish," was his gentle reply. "The story of these constellations is part of the Grecian mythologies, handed down from generation to generation." He paused before his words deepened into a more acute tone. "Andromeda was the daughter of Cephus and Cassiopeia, a royal family that served the gods without fault, and consequently, blessed for their devout faith in them. _

"_But despite this, not all creatures adhered to the gods' commands, and one day when the Princess Andromeda ventured into the palace gardens, she caught the attention of the hideous creature Draco. It is said that his cold heart melted at the sight of her—for her beauty was incomparable, even the goddesses themselves envied her. _

"_Draco found that he could not live without such beauty, for his existence was dark and dreaded, as he obscured himself from the world and life itself. In his desire, he was determined to have Andromeda, no matter the consequence."_

_Bastien_ _paused, and Christine held her breath. He slightly smiled at her visible show of interest. "He almost succeeded. However, the gods prevented his abduction of her, and placed her in the heavens, away from Draco. They chained her to the skies, forever bound to the beauty that surrounded her. And though she was imprisoned, the gods took pity upon her loneliness and placed her parents there as well, so they could be with her for eternity."_

_Christine frowned at the sudden end of the story. "But what became of Draco?" she asked, her expression revealing slight disappointment. "What did the gods do to him?"_

_Bastien_ _remained silent, staring at her with a bland expression. After a long interval of silence, he answered her, "They placed him in the heavens as well. He is close to his Andromeda, however Cephus and Cassiopeia permanently separate him from her. They are, in a sense, together, yet forever divided by the will of the gods." _

"_I see," Christine muttered despondently, then looked at Bastien. "And so it is one of the more pleasant myths."_

"_Not all stories have a tragic ending," he gently chided her. "As you see, the beauty prevailed in this story, defeating the creature that would take her into his dark world and inevitably destroy her."_

"_Perhaps," she returned. "And yet, I see only the overall dominance and the unneeded intervention by the gods. The lack of compassion in this myth is so callous that it is almost sickening."_

_Bastien_ _glanced at her, his gaze almost unearthly. "And why do you think that? Why take pity upon a creature that is both hideous and cruel, and then demean the justifications of the gods themselves?"_

_Christine looked at him, hesitated, then shook her head. "I do not know. It feels…wrong somehow. I cannot explain it, for I do not know why I would take pity upon such a creature. It is only that not all things that are rendered hideous are cruel."_

"Touché_."_ _Bastien smirked. "However, in most cases, they are. Beauty and perfection was both prized and praised among the Greeks. It is the decay and destruction of the world that causes true pain._

" _We_ _are chained, not to the heavens, but to our own destinies." His hand fell against her cheek as he whispered, "Are you chained, Christine?" _

_Her eyes widened, the subtlety of his meaning falling cruelly upon her. Did he suspect? No. He could not, her mind reasoned. No one knew—_no one _would ever know. And with this in mind, she tried to pull away from him. "I must return now," she murmured, despairing in her useless attempts to be free of his concrete hold. _

_She sighed in despair as her eyes closed in apparent defeat. No one would come to her aid, not this time. Her frail figure weakened as Bastien's grasp intensified. He would not allow her to leave, not until he—_

"_Christine!"_

_The unyielding grip on her hand fell away as her name echoed into the night. She opened her eyes with the realization that someone had come for her. Her distress dissipated, only to be replaced with utter calm as she gazed upon the man who saved her. _

_Erik was here. _

"_Erik," Christine said, her expression conveying a sense of irreproachable relief. But regardless of her momentary happiness, she felt the cold sensation of anger within his golden eyes. The yellow orbs seethed with an all-too-familiar emotion that bordered upon fury._

_With this knowledge, Christine noticed him move toward her, his movements graceful, intentional. A gloved hand pulled her to his side, its belligerent hold moving inexorably around her rigid waist. She felt herself slightly gasp from his touch, the feeling of an innate possessiveness taking hold of her senses. Erik was displeased; that was a certainty, she dismally concluded as his gloved, skeletal fingers pressed heavily upon her waist._

_A cold and resolute silence lingered between them as the soft strains of a Russian waltz lightly echoed from the ballroom. The music, though almost inaudible, was disregarded—the concrete stares emitted from both men remained, however, their metallic gazes locked, brooding with the silent promise of war._

_Christine watched the bitter, silent mêlée between them. It was an apocalyptic battle between two foes as gold and silver clashed within the darkness, the luminous, unnatural glow of their eyes held an almost macabre appeal that silently lured her to watch with growing dismay. _

_But just as the unspoken animosity began it also ended with the same, unintentional throw of resentment. "Ah, you must be _Monsieur _de Maricourt," Bastien spoke at last, bowing with a severe certainty that even made angels shudder. "It is a pleasure to meet to you at last. I am Lord Drazlovsky."_

_Erik inclined his head slightly, the hood of his cloak gently moving forward._

_An emotion akin to intrigue flashed within the Russian's pale eyes. "I have heard of your many talents, _monsieur. _It seems that the tsar is impressed by your various…skills." His unwavering grin added volumes to his blithe comment. "And as well he should. The court has been a bit…mundane since the previous tsar sadly deprived us of his_ _company…"_

"_Indeed." Erik's yellow eyes hardened to a brilliant shade of molten amber, the center of the irises brimming with untouchable crimson flecks of ire. His devil's stare remained upon the indifferent lord, as if silently challenging him to utter another foolish word._

_However, to Erik's disappointment, his opponent remained silent, wise in the conscientious notion of holding such a blasphemous tongue. Erik eyed the man briefly, then turned his insightful stare upon Christine. "It is time we depart," he muttered softly, meaningfully._

_Christine nodded at this, a gentle sigh escaping her when Erik led her away from the balcony. Her eyes hesitantly turned to look at the man who spurred Erik's wrath, his silvery gaze remaining disturbingly upon her. She shuddered inside, her heart quavering with an unnamable fear that almost overtook her._

_And though she desperately wished to blame her worry upon the Lord Drazlovsky, she knew that she could not, for it was her saviour that inspired the fear, as his skeletal fingers wrapped tightly around her captive waist, mutely making her aware of the displeasure she had wrought within him…_

The memory faded from Christine's mind as the bitter remnants of it caused a sad and overwrought sigh to escape her. Erik had not spoken to her since then, even the lonely carriage ride to the palace was engulfed in a dismal silence that seemed to saturate the very air they breathed with unfettered indignation.

Her head began to ache from the frustration and dreaded anticipation of what was to come. Erik would return from his many long hours of entertaining the tsar with his genius and chastise her—as his firm hold upon her waist had promised the night before—the dark, uncontrolled passion within his touch only initiated a cold forewarning of his growing anger. As if he were the beautiful personification of Vesuvius before it destroyed the oblivious Pompeii.

And like the ill-fated city, she, too, would feel the wrath of a god. Erik would never forgive her for such a transgression, his pride and anger would never allow it.

With this in mind, she turned away from the window and seated herself before the antique vanity. Her dull eyes looked at the pale reflection, noticing the lifeless creature within its mirrored surface. She looked the like the bride of a groom, long dead and decayed by the wear of time.

Her dark hair remained in its cheerless foray of pins and fastenings until she removed them with the careless grace of one disillusioned by the conventional beauty that society deemed apposite to the rash disarray her hair now lay in—the lifeless ebony strands languidly falling against her neck and shoulders until they disappeared behind, overlaying their silken tresses over her bare flesh.

She slightly grimaced at her attire. Though the sleeveless nightdress was crafted in pure satin, it was not one of the many garments she so carefully selected from the myriad of dressing gowns and other intimate attire. The beautiful skein of satin had unfortunately found itself within her order, carelessly cast aside and misplaced for her to discover.

It discouraged her upon finding it, but much to the pleadings of Mina, she had reluctantly kept it safely hidden under the rest of her gowns. She would not consider even wearing it had it not been for the delay of her laundered clothing. It seemed that, as fate would have it, she would be reduced to wear this scanty garb until one more suitable, and more importantly, modest could replace it.

She sighed, looking at the gown. Flowers, more of a darker shade of ivory, were engraved upon the fine satin as a line of pearl-encrusted beads lined its rim. The corset-styled top fitted her to absolute perfection, its coarse, yet flexible, mold allowed her to move without restraint as the rest trailed off in a cascade of ivory satin.

At a distance one could almost consider it a gown made for a royal intrigue. Its classic style almost held an enticing, decadent nature that befitted the truest paramour. Mistresses of the first water would be compelled to commit murder for such a gown.

And it was at this thought that Christine questioned what she was becoming. Was she turning into something that was not herself—something that she could no longer identify or recognize? She knew her appearance was frail, if not fragile. But to lose herself altogether…It was impossible to even fathom…

Christine looked away from the mirror, closing her eyes as the remote sense of pain entered her mind. Twilight was upon the horizon, she realized as her abject gaze slowly turned to the window. The sun had already set, a dense cloak of stars following its daily demise. Very soon _he_ would be here. And then there would be hell to pay…

The silence that followed left only the abstemious trepidation that seemed to linger and penetrate the very walls with its ominous tidings. Christine waited, the grave anticipation slowly consuming her to the point of self-despair. She feared what was to come.

An hour passed without fault—thirty-six hundred seconds of madness given within that allotted time—moved, transcending throughout the forgotten hours and moments that seemed to fade into a lifeless state of oblivion. For Christine, however, it was nothing short of a dismal reality that would cruelly take precedence over her life once more. The spurned creature would reprimand his unfaithful bride. And no stars, no divine intervention could bind him from claiming such oblivious innocence for his own. She would be his once again this night.

And as her weary gaze fell upon the mirror once more she noticed that there was not one reflection but two, the cold, forlorn expression that became her was opposed by the impassive visage of cracked porcelain. Her mind only confirmed what her timid heart already knew:

Erik had come at last.

Christine remained where she was, seated in the uncharacteristic pose of an indifferent lady whose only priority was to stare vacantly at her own image. But as her eyes remained solely upon the mirror their gaze was focused upon the looming figure that slowly approached.

She watched Erik move with the dark confidence that resided within him. His gait was perfect, graceful like a skilled dancer, but silent as a shadow. Her heart nearly stopped when she noticed him standing directly behind her. It was like staring at the face of Death, yet not fearing him as one should. And she could not find it within herself to turn away from the insidious reflection that blissfully haunted her mind and dreams.

For Erik—the perfect incarnation of Death—was too compelling to turn away from. His very presence mesmerized her, enchanting her with the skilled sonnets that poets long since dead enticed their muses with. And _she_ was his muse. Even after everything that had transpired between them, she still held that position within his artistic mind. It would remain unchanged as long as both lived.

She then felt herself release the dread, worry, and overall fear that had plagued her since the previous night. It was time to accept the consequences and move on. She only prayed that Erik would be lenient. His gracious mercy would be a gift from God.

"Christine…"

Her eyes closed at the utterance of her name as the turbulent feelings of euphoria coerced her to answer. "Erik," she said in a breathless whisper, and she felt him move closer, his firm figure moving heavily against the back of her chair.

In the silence that followed Christine imagined that she heard the angered, yet controlled, breathing that emanated from Erik's imperious figure, making her painfully aware of his intentions. He would punish her without giving any consideration of the consequences.

Another moment passed as she spent a deathless eternity watching him within the mirror, the apathetic stare his eyes ensued only dissuaded her to turn and confront him, mask to face, her resolve weakening as she felt his callused authority overcome her. Erik would be the one to initiate the conversation, not she.

And he did not disappoint her, for as if reading her thoughts, he finally spoke: "You seem distraught, Christine," his thoughtful words cut through her like a knife. "Your face is pale. I daresay it is indeed quite paler than mine, if such a thing is to be had." The light in her eyes suddenly dimmed, and under the mask he smiled. "What troubles you, my dear Christine?" His mildly asked question made her flinch.

Christine stared at his image as the hidden tears within her eyes threatened to emerge and traitorously reveal themselves to him. Inside, however, a slight sense of confidence defeated her momentary weakness, giving him the courage to speak and prove that she was no longer a child who feared him.

A shuddered breath escaped her as she moved to speak. "Do not pretend that you do not know, Erik. You know very well why I am upset, and why _you_ are here," she said, precariously holding on to what little ground she had with him. "I make no move to confess something I am not guilty of."

Erik inwardly tensed, her lovely voice only infecting him with the bitter sharpness of her irreverent tongue. "Then let us not keep up the pretense," his words seethed with malcontent. His thoughtless wife had just foolishly sealed her own fate.

He glanced at Christine's innocent features, noting the wariness within her petulant expression. A stab of unprecedented fury burned within him as his hands moved to the soft loose curls that flowed and ebbed delicately about her shoulders. His fingers entangled themselves within the silken tresses with a mindless abandon that nearly consumed him. She would no longer remain a blushing bride to him, not after this night.

A sudden, shrill gasp escaped Christine when she noticed his fingers invading her hair, penetrating the virgin curls like a reckless lover who was left to be sated of his ignominious thirst. He watched her expression shift from wavering disbelief to chronic fear, and his grin widened ever so slightly from the delightful sight. She was losing her innocence as she helplessly watched him desecrate her image in the mirror.

Another small gasp deserted her, and she felt herself strangely possessed by Erik. Her eyes remained fixed upon the emaciated fingers that moved throughout her hair, their entanglements within the tousled strands were purposeful, intentional. Erik's hands moved with the skilled mastery of ardent lover, and yet held a sense of restraint. The hesitant nature his touch conveyed only ignited a deep, almost unknown passion within her. The fascination of the tangible feel of his sensitive ministrations almost forced her to relent and forgo her present anger with him.

But just as the moment enticed her to abandon all sense of reason it shattered when she felt his fingers tighten, painfully forcing her to realize her error.

Yellow eyes reflected the indignation that burned deeply within them as the domineering hold on her tightened, instinctively coiling the captive strands of ebony around his withered fingers. Christine's eyes widened at the horrid display—the white skeletal digits that held her dark hair captive were a perfect contrast of the abysmal nature of both.

Whether Erik noticed the strange, significant union between them she could not tell. The only truth that lay with her was the firm, unchangeable fact that she would adhere to whatever he had to say. And even if his words only left her with the chilled remorse of a thousand nights without his companionship, she would accept whatever fate he bestowed upon her. And with this, she nodded, giving him the freedom to speak.

A brief, almost visible show of hesitation shifted within Erik's rigid stance. His hands remained where they were, however, as they held themselves within the confines of Christine's illustrious hair. The intangible scent of her perfume filled his senses; his hidden face scowled underneath the mask as the languid fragrance of a musky, yet intoxicating, trace of lavender burned within his mind, tantalizing him to the point of madness.

His eyes hardened as the inaudible state of breathing stilled itself within his chest. Never before had she ever dared to defy him in such a brutishly exquisite manner. And yet, never before had she ever compelled him to withdraw his defenses and try to understand what timid longings ran throughout her mind. It was as if she was giving herself over to him—willingly forfeiting whatever strength pervaded her fragile form. The undeniable truth of her submission almost forced him to relinquish the captive strands of hair from his bloodstained hands.

He considered her silently, his eyes riveting over her still figure. His slight intake of breath only deepened, steeling itself against him as his gaze drew forward, noticing the unequivocal perfection that made her. The pallor of her skin did not remain with her face, but all over. The pale, unbroken beauty engulfed Christine with a rigid porcelain splendour that martyred virgins would be envious of.

Erik could not look away as the hauntingly beautiful image of her innocence remained with him. Even within the dark recesses of his tormented mind he could not turn his sight away.

Like a goddess conjured from a Grecian myth, Christine bestowed upon her mortal captor the awe and decadence that completed her. She had the power to resurrect lost souls and make them walk the earth as men once more. Her bare shoulders and endless tide of dark hair were enough to hold the very foundations of Heaven in place. And her eyes…were enough to render him without thought or care for the reason of his being here now.

But as the staid moment seemed to drift upon the edges of an endless eternity, the last traces of his sanity steered him away, forcing him to remember her betrayal and the remote anger that festered within his black soul.

"You seem to have little care for your reputation, my dear," he began, the cold, drilling sound of his godlike voice reverberated the acrid disappointment that engulfed his being. "As seen from last night, I find that you have little concern of how you represent yourself in front of others."

Christine visibly frowned at his words. "Is that what you believe?" she asked, her innate disbelief causing her to turn a fraction in the vanity seat, only to see the unmoving length of his shoulder. She glared at the resolute shape, inwardly angered by the silence that followed her question. Her eyes narrowed and her muscles tensed under Erik's distant scrutiny. "I would have your anger than this incessant silence that seems to taint your better judgment."

Erik did not respond to her sudden admission of anger, as he could only consider the audacity that was laced within her finely articulated words. The wintry bitterness that surmounted each blessed syllable with its apathetic spite compelled him with a remote effortlessness to answer her.

"Is that what you desire, Christine?" he asked profoundly, his fingers shifting ever so slightly within the dark folds of her hair.

"It is," she answered without reservation, her eyes fixed upon a hand that held a loose curl.

The tender ministrations upon Christine's hair slowed to a crawl as Erik considered her. The bravado she imparted was impressive, intriguing even. She had symbolically invited his anger, daring it to unleash itself upon her, and inevitably ripping away any foundation she may have built to bridge the massive chasm that forever separated them.

Erik smiled under the mask. He would not disappoint her.

His left hand moved forward and fell lightly against a pale cheek. The skin under his glove felt warm and full of life—unlike the poor excuse of tattered and mottled flesh upon his own face—that seemed to only promote his passionate awareness of her to the point of driving her away from him. His fingers remained where they were, however, basking in the warmth that appeared to quell the icy death that lingered upon his own flesh.

She was perfect in every aspect, he aptly noted. The brilliant, flawless precision that only echoed from his works was personified in the woman before him. He would be a fool to release her, offer her like a virginal sacrifice to a callous multitude of unsanctified deities whose only purpose was to tear away any innocence that remained.

And with this, Erik moved forward, a porcelain cheek inexorably falling against hers. He felt a slight shudder emit from her, heard the delicate intake of breath from her apparent discomfort. He smiled at this as his right hand moved to the opposite side of her face, caressing it with the tender ministrations of a skilled lover.

"The price of a betrayal towards me is dire, Christine," he whispered, and then tilted his face slightly against hers. The porcelain lips shifted and lightly traced her delicate cheek as the words became more graceful, less severe. "You will not leave my side for another man again."

He heard the cry that escaped her, vaguely noticing that her eyes were fixed upon the compromising image in the mirror's obtrusive reflection. To any common man, it was scandalous, if not utterly blatant in the harsh standards of an indirect society that prided itself upon morality and just behaviour.

Nevertheless, Erik set aside the momentary caution that seemed to bleed through the garish white façade of Christine's shocked expression. Their childish interlude was at an end, and it was time to cast aside the false civility that only masked the undeniable truth.

"You realize that I desire a perfect wife; I have told you as much. And with this perfection comes a certain dilemma, which I am sure that you so utterly despise. And despite the untouched innocence that boy _graciously_ left you, I cannot promise that _I_ will be as merciful."

Erik paused, watching her lifeless guise melt to one of true horror as she realized the subtle warning behind his words. "Know that if I see you with another man—other than myself—I cannot assure you that I will allow him to live long after our meeting. In fact, I fear that such sympathy for something not of my own kind would be almost…impractical. And _I_ am a practical person, Christine."

His left hand tightened around a loose strand of her hair. "Do not force me to commit a needless murder for your sake. I find that ending any man's life with a trace of noble blood to be quite unpleasant—especially for one as foolish and arrogant as your _pretty_ admirer."

A light frown frayed Christine's pale features as Erik's admonition left a callous reminder of the concealed wrath that embittered him. But in spite of the dark resentment that obviously clouded the remnants of his sanity, she knew that his possessive nature—regardless of the true cruelty behind his words—only attested to his refusal to allow true harm to come to her. And for that, she found that for all the subtleties of his dark past could be overlooked, if not forgiven in her eyes. Erik was not her enemy.

And as such, she looked once more into the mirror, and stared upon the dual image. A pale hand moved away from her side and gracefully fell upon one of his. She watched with grim satisfaction as his yellow eyes smoldered with what could be considered as anger. However, the slight shift in his movements contradicted his infuriated demeanor.

Christine's hand tightened around his as she spoke with the calm certainty that compelled her: "He is not an admirer, Erik. Nor is he one that I would dare meet in private again. I only wished to return any courtesy that he had bestowed upon me." Her eyes moved to their joined hands, and then back to the mirror. "It was nothing more than that. You must know that I could never betray you, that I could never le—"

"For your sake, pray that you are not lying, Christine," he coldly interjected, not caring to hear any more of the lies that spewed forth from her lovely lips. "It would be a shame for you to endure the observations of someone being strangled in the name of a false love." He glared at her. "The neck of a human is truly a fragile thing. One must not exert too much pressure, lest the bone snap upon contact."

The cold porcelain that abused her cheek moved away; as did the captive snare abruptly loosen upon her tangled strands of hair. She noticed that Erik now stood behind her, like a silent sentinel that denied himself the innate human contact that tormented him. The only evidence of their brief union lay upon the joining of their hands.

Erik watched the hope that faintly burned within her eyes wither, and then die. All hopes within the intimate contact between them had immediately expired the moment he spoke his poison. And it was a deadly poison that usurped any purity or goodness that she might have found within him. She would despise him; fear him and the promise, which left only the bitter sting of the knowledge that he would execute his vow to the exact measure.

He removed his hand from hers then, disregarding the apparent look of pain upon her ivory face. Christine's visible discontent was something that could be ignored, if not overlooked entirely. He cared not if she chastised him in the still silence after he left her company. Christine's alleged pain was brought on by her own foolish actions.

And as he made his way to the door, he turned and looked at her sullen figure once more. His indifferent stare moved over her with remote apathy as the words that festered within escaped him, "No man shall _ever_ have you, for you are mine, Christine. And I will not share you with another." The golden flare within his eyes bespoke their master's somber vow.

Christine pulled away from the vanity to speak, but found herself rendered silent as the condescending reproach within Erik's expressionless stare demanded no further exchange between them. He looked at her for another moment, silently, before turning away and closing the door behind him.

A heavy sigh escaped her as the dismal feeling of dejection inundated her thoughts. The vague notion of what was to come worried her as she recalled the unspoken words that burned within his eyes only moments before. Her teeth clasped the lower portion of her lip, painfully, her mind seizing the remnants of a deluded nightmare that had somehow become a fanciful reality:

"_You are the wife of Erik: now and forever."_

…

The evening faded into the blissful darkness of twilight as ominous clouds of an approaching storm wavered heavily over the palace. Lightening illuminated the black skies with its hellish radiance; a rejoining explosion of thunder echoing within the distance.

Erik glanced at the window and the brooding storm beyond it with disinterest. Given the knowledge that Russia was as notorious for its spring storms as it was for its long, endless winters, he found little fascination in watching it. Already, he had shamefully neglected his work, abandoning it for the frivolous pursuits of the tsar.

He inwardly balked at his employer's method of rule. For Alexander, though firm in his ideologies of making his empire more of an autocratic society, was still nascent in his early stages of leadership. It would be difficult to reform a people who had been freed from the serfdom that the former tsar instituted. Especially since rebel groups—the _Narodnaya Volya_, in particular—still lingered throughout the slums and peasant districts of St. Petersburg. The reestablishment of social order would take years, if not decades to fulfill.

Overall, the idea in itself seemed plausible. However, the newly crowned tsar would have to contend with the tattered legacy that his father left behind. The double revenge on the group responsible for Alexander II's death, and also the construction of the church over the murder scene only seemed to further the new tsar's hatred for rebellion.

But despite the flaws within Alexander's beliefs, Erik found an impressionable air to the new ruler. Perhaps, in time, he could rise from the ashes of his predecessors and return the glory the empire once had under Peter the Great.

Then again, if all else failed, if the country fell into a civil war that would inevitably destroy a dynasty almost three centuries old, the Romanov family would, either way, leave a notable mark upon the ancient tomes of a history that had yet to be fulfilled.

Another bout of thunder echoed, flustering the fragile glass windowpanes. Erik ignored the furious storm that raged outside, discarding his thoughts of the Russian empire and plausible outcomes of a dim future. After his time with the tsar came to an end, he and Christine would move on. Where, however, was yet to be decided.

The direction of their future together had still yet to be charted. He knew that whatever destination he chose she would be with him, no matter if she was robbed of a comfortable, peaceful life with the de Chagny heir, which he was since his brother's unfortunate death.

The young fool would be the beneficiary of an ancient title that additionally came with a number of smaller titles and lands that had been collected by the family over the centuries. Years of acquiring property under the security of protecting the people on it had only added to the brilliance of the de Chagny name, which was nothing more than a robber's title.

Christine would be a part of that family and all of its horrid magnificence. By joining the young de Chagny in marriage, the union would eventually poison her, taint her, and make her nothing more than a mere shadow of herself. She would be a false image of the former splendour she ultimately radiated on the Opéra's illustrious stage.

It was better that she remained with him, his mind reasoned. With him, she would be free of the corruption that seemed to hover over her. With him, she could at least retain a sense of dignity that her previous betrothed clearly lacked.

His idle gaze returned to his work, and his mind concentrated upon the musical score. Thin fingers moved gracefully over the childish scrawl, as if memorizing each note, each rest that moved the work forward into a mantra of unsaid words that only conveyed its creator's darkest thoughts on its yellowed surface.

The pen scratched against the parchment in a hurried pace, dark ink smearing from the contact of Erik's left hand. A few more notes were added until Erik noticed the stained work; his hand clenched in irritation. This work had to be perfect—perfect like the still figure upon the bed. Erik turned to Christine, who lay blissfully unaware of his presence.

After removing himself from their last confrontation Erik had neglected seeing her for the rest of the evening. He placed the tsar's orders and recommendations before her; never once considering the pain she might feel for his absence. Christine's sadness was something he no longer considered as being important. It was merely a mild irritation that seemed to burn and seethe within him until enforcing the rage that remained just below the surface of his rigid composure.

Even now, he felt the remnants of his previous anger inflame and brilliantly consume him with its dangerous ire. Why did she always turn away from him? Why did she desire the company of a stranger over his? The fragile pen within his hand almost snapped. Damn her for being so beautifully naïve.

The unmoved emotion within his heart droned on with each steady beat, his hand inexorably returning itself to the tattered sheaf of papers. Erik ignored the blemished notes, moving only to add another part of the opéra within his mind. With each movement, each shift in music, Erik felt himself almost a part of his brilliant composition. Very soon it would take precedence over what his _Don Juan Triumphant_ could have been. Very soon Christine—

A startled cry from behind destroyed his thoughts. Erik turned to see Christine shift uncontrollably in the bed, her first cry, along with a long string of its descendents, only added to the unseen plight that seemed to devour her.

Without hesitation Erik abandoned his work, moving to her trembling side. He hovered over her, watching her pitiful form sway and twist in the wrinkled sheets. Her pale face contorted into a mask of pain as crystalline tears cascaded down her ivory cheeks. Christine's cries only furthered her agony as the gentle promise of an unforeseen insanity moved over her, compelling her into a dance of sweet madness.

"Christine," Erik muttered to his unconscious bride.

She did not awaken to his gentle words.

Seeing this, his hand gently clasped her shoulder; the feel of perspiration only increased his concern. Incoherent words escaped her colourless lips as another tear fell from a closed eye. Christine was caught in a nightmare, one that captured her in its dreadful grasp.

For the passing of a brutal moment Erik tried coerce her back to consciousness, but failed. Christine's cries, though softer now, still held a fragment of pain. Whatever nightmare that pursued her had successfully relinquished any trace of rationality. Christine was under its spell completely.

A drilling irritation then moved throughout Erik, as no nightmare would come between him and his Christine. His hands moved and imprisoned her arms in their possessive grasp. "Christine, awake from this nightmare," he urged as his hands shook her. But he only received another disjointed cry. "Christine, cease this madness at once!" he ordered, his firm grip on her arms threatening to bruise the tender flesh.

Christine stirred underneath him, and her tearstained eyes opened to pitifully gaze upon her silent captor. "Erik," she mumbled tragically, a trembling hand moving to grasp one of his. "I thought you had left me."

His eyes widened at her frantic assertions. "Christine, I have been in this room with you for hours. I did not leave during that time," he said, his monotone voice only revealing the truth behind his words.

But in spite of his honesty, Christine shook her head. "No, you left me in the darkness… I dreamt that you left me there, to suffer alone in it…"

"Christine, what dark dream did your mind conjure? Tell me," Erik found himself say, not caring if he revealed any concern.

Her eyes looked at him with visible disbelief, the innate doubt of his concern weighing heavily upon her lips. She did not voice her reservations in telling him; he would not allow her to. Sighing in defeat, she nodded as the words escaped her, "I cannot remember all of it," she murmured softly, "I wish that I could forget it, Erik." Her eyelids lowered in disgrace, the dark lashes gracing against her wan complexion.

"Tell me, Christine," Erik whispered, his golden eyes inducing her to continue.

Hearing the urgency within his voice, she nodded. "There was blood, so much blood." She looked at her hands in reproachable disgust. "It was on my hands, my dress…I could not wash it away…it stained me so." She looked up at him, penitent tears within her eyes.

Erik's expressionless mask regarded her without feeling, though his golden eyes conveyed something else: understanding. His hands moved away from her arms and fell to the unstained hands which troubled her. "Christine," his voice placated her, "it was merely a dream, and nothing more."

A solemn tear fell from an azure eye. "I only wish it were, Erik. It seemed so real to me, like I was living this horrid nightmare and you were nowhere to be found…I searched for you, called your name, but you never came to me—you left me there in the cold and in the darkness until…" She dared not finish, lest she allow him to think her completely a fool.

But Erik would not relent. "Until what, Christine? Tell me."

Christine looked down in silent defeat. "Until I felt death all around me." She inwardly shuddered at the memory. "I knew I was going to die."

"And do you fear death?" he asked, his mellifluous voice resonating within the darkness.

"How can I not, Erik? When there is nothing but the coldness of my nightmares to foretell the emptiness of it all. I sometimes wonder if my father and so many others felt this opaque void of unrelenting despair." An ancient, battle-worn sigh fell from her dry lips, revealing her weakness at last. "Yes, Erik. Yes, I fear death."

"Christine, you must realize that your fears are nothing more than ravings, brought on by something that shall not come to pass," Erik spoke at last, the brilliant luminosity of his yellow eyes holding hers in their captive gaze. "Death comes to us all. It is inevitable, infinite against our mortality. You must not fear it so."

"I know," Christine said; her voice distant. "But I fear to be alone when it comes. I do not wish to be in the darkness, forever isolated from everything…"

Christine's words fell against him like heavy blows of utter dejection. The validity within her fears was legitimate, if not disheartening. And with this knowledge, Erik knew that he would never abandon her. Not in life could he find the means to tear her from his side, and he so righteously refused to release her in death.

For no false chains that allegedly fettered her to another, nor pleas of release would deny him of her, even Death itself would be unable to separate them. They would be one, forever bound to the other. And it was then he turned all thoughts to his Christine, his immortal bride.

Watching her silently, Erik's hands tightened around hers. "Rest and think no more of these unpleasant thoughts, Christine, for these are merely delusions contrived by the false imaginings of your mind." His golden eyes breached no argument from her. "You shall have no more nightmares this night," he assured her, and moved to leave her side.

A gentle cry escaped Christine as she felt him leave her. Her hands grasped his arms, wholly refusing to release him. "Please, Erik," she pleaded, unashamed of the tears that fell from her eyes. "Do not torment me with your cold absence. Please, do not abandon me to this darkness, to these unending nightmares…" she muttered dejectedly, her head falling in shame. "I could not bear it."

"Christine—"

"Please, stay with me, only for tonight," she openly begged, not caring to show her weakness, or her desperation. "Erik, I will do anything you ask of me."

_Anything…_

Erik's form became rigid, unmoving at her careless words. She had inadvertently offered him her very soul, if he would only submit to this one request. It was a request he could willingly grant, the price itself was too much to refuse.

And so he nodded, agreeing to remain and comfort her until the early hours of dawn. The gentle grip on her hands intensified as his golden gaze compelled her to look at him. Seeing her succumb to his subtle command Erik glanced at her tearstained visage. She looked like a beautiful representation of Hell; her pale face illuminated the radiance of Avernus itself.

"Do you desire my company to such a notable degree?" he questioned.

She faintly smiled. "Yes, Erik, I want you to stay with me."

His impassive mask considered her quietly. "If I stay, I trust that you will honour your promise to me," he reminded her. "Anything I want shall be mine, Christine. Are you so certain to relinquish _anything_ to me for this one request?"

Christine gently sighed. She would pay the ultimate price and relinquish her soul to him this night if she agreed. But was there any choice? One night with him opposed to an eternity filled with fear and dread had all but spurned her from his cold arms.

And in that fatal moment Christine made her choice. "Yes, Erik, anything you desire will be yours."

A cold moment of silence lingered between them until Erik shattered it. "As you wish, my dear," he muttered, his eyes gleaming with a faint satisfaction that burned vibrantly until it faded out into the vast gloom that surrounded them.

The few candles that illuminated the room were beginning to burn out, joining themselves with the shadows. A momentary show of fear fell against Christine's face as her eyes widened from the intense darkness that loomed over her like a pall.

And though she felt the sheer misery that seemed to pervade her every thought, she felt a slight sense of comfort when Erik moved to her side of the bed. The hesitant yet purposeful shift in his movements caused her to lean against him, his cold touch enveloping her shivering body with its strange reassurance. Christine felt herself inexorably move against the broad expanse of his chest, and vaguely noticed that the smell of death that imbued his dark form was vacant.

"Erik…" she murmured softly against him, secretly enjoying the strange intimacy between them. Never before had she felt so relieved, so damnably alive. With Erik, she realized, she could remain in a state of infinite peace, without care or any concern for the rest of the world, and regardless of the many arguments and times she felt despair because of him.

With this in mind, she felt a blissful, tranquil peace overcome her as the advent of sleep welcomed her with its gentle tidings. And in the safe security of Erik's arms she felt herself drift away from consciousness, her last thought upon the man who cradled her against him.

Erik watched Christine willingly succumb to the intrinsic pull of sleep, the light rise and fall of her chest showing that she remained in a peaceful state. His eyes moved over her, gazing upon the frail beauty that became her. He noticed her soft smile and the way she held onto him in her sleep. It was as if she had no will to release him, as if she desired him to stay with her, even during her sleep.

A thousand burning, tantalizing questions then came to his mind. Why did she so willingly relinquish so much to have him stay with her? And what waking nightmare had frightened her into his arms? He did not know. Inwardly, he believed that Christine's alleged delusions held a partial truth that foretold something dreadful. But of course, it was merely nonsense. Christine was not a seer. Nor a sibyl who prophesized what was to come, the idea of it all bordered on madness.

His Christine was ordinary in a way a woman should be. There was no otherworldly power about her, no unique gift that other fools claimed to have been born with. She was still a child in many ways.

Nevertheless, his thoughts, though still fixed upon Christine's oddity, slightly moved to her offer. She did not realize the promise that she so willingly imparted. He considered what he would take, for he would not aid her without a price. His eyes then shifted to Christine, her tranquil visage obscured by the darkness.

He smiled then, crookedly, as the notion of what he would ask of her came to him. For this one night she would give him something precious to her, something that she alone had, all to herself. It would be his then, forever to hold and guard, just like his Christine.

And no one, not even the tsar or even a false god, could ever take it from him…

…

**Author's Note: I believe I am making this some sort of habit in updating on the anniversary of this story's publication. Oh, well, I suppose it is rather fun to do, even though I am not overly pleased with the chapter itself. I apologise for the grammatical errors. Truly, I just wanted to get this posted.**

**Anyway, I am sure everyone can see where this is going, and it's about bloody time, too. I have waited so long to have this part written and posted. I swear this scene was in my mind for over a year before actually writing it. It was wonderful to finally see it come to life, even though it may difficult to believe from what Christine said to Erik at the end. I tried to make what happened between them as believable as I possibly could.**

**Oh, and the part with the mirror _was_ a seduction scene, even if both were unaware of it. I just had to add that in. I grow tired of angst all of the time. There needs to be some sort of interval between the swaying emotions and overall hatred and indecision of it all.**

**I also wanted to mention that I have updated a little segment on my frequently asked questions section. I have made a Descanov family tree, and added it there. It can be found at the last part concerning those characters.**

**With all of that said, I wished to thank everyone for their kind considerations and condolences concerning my father. I know he would have wanted me to continue this, since he was _very _aware of my writing it. I can only thank him for the many history books he gave me to do my research. And I will get this story finished, even if cuts in my time at college. ;)**

**Again, thank you, everyone, for reviewing!**


	15. Chapter Fourteen: A Truth Unveiled

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Fourteen.

The early morning hours spent in the presence of the tsar seemed to drift and linger in a suspended state of absence until the promise of a belated evening danced upon the Russian setting sun. Revisions of plans for buildings in the capital, particularly the new cathedral, had drawn Erik into a foray of madness, mainly brought on by the wishes of his employer.

"I have marked the inquiries made by the architect. And it seems that the construction of the building will follow through as planned, though it will take years and not months to finish the structure," Erik said, his eyes remaining on one of the many drafts sent.

Alexander nodded. "Of course. I did not expect it to be finished within a year," he concurred, then took up a photograph of the site. "I can expect it to be finished in my lifetime, though." He grinned, turning to his own set of drafts. "I want this to be a church that will even eclipse that damned basilica in Rome. Surely we Russians can manage that."

Erik listened to the tsar's tirade over the Russian Orthodox faith opposed to the ancient practices of Roman Catholicism, but chose to ignore adding his own opinion. Instead he took up a map that contained where the site would be, his golden eyes reflecting his thoughts.

The tsar noticed Erik's silence, as he had many times before. The subject of religion, though inadvertently initiating itself in the conversation, seemed to render his guest silent. It was as if he had treaded precariously upon an unspoken concept—one that only released an unknown resentment in his secretive architect.

In this sense, Alexander never mentioned his suspicions, seeing that it would cause more harm than good. Besides, he believed that perhaps one day his strange friend would find the absolution that came so rarely to many lost souls, if only by the way of divine intervention.

"I shall send your suggestions to Parland, Erik," Alexander muttered, gathering the scribbled notes on the desk. "He will be grateful for your opinion."

Erik said nothing to Alexander as he corrected a minute error on a design. He glanced at it once more; his mind fixed on its other blatant flaws. Russian architects had a way of destroying true architecture, he thought dismally as he corrected another error before relinquishing it to the tsar's patiently waiting hand.

Alexander faintly smiled as he noticed the arcane, childish red markings on the original set of designs. Corrections on the domes—the centre one especially—were heavily outlined in a dark crimson-coloured ink. A colour, though dynamic in its abstract integrity, still held a daunting edge that made one's eye focus upon the modifications required.

He had to admit that Erik was, in fact, more suitable for the role as architect than the esteemed Alfred Parland. His suggestions and critical eye alone were enough to conclude two decades worth of work. Alexander had to admit that Erik, if given the chance, would have the cathedral completed before the close of the century.

A new thought then came to mind as Alexander considered Erik's true genius…

_It had been a few weeks before his daughter's seventh birthday when she came into his study, her face awash with bitter tears. Alexander had been, at the least, perplexed by his daughter's strange, yet understandable, behaviour, for in her hands lay a doll, its porcelain face cracked and body broken beyond redemption._

"_Oh, Papa!" the girl cried. "Nicky and Georgie threw her from the stairway again, and now she's broken," she sobbed heavily. "She was my favourite…"_

_Alexander made a silent vow to speak with his errant sons for causing such a disturbance as he gently assured his daughter of replacing her doll. The girl cried that it could not be done, saying that she despised her brothers for their cruelty. And it was within the sobbing of his only daughter's trembling arms that ever comforting father formed a plan._

_He glanced at a few designs on his desk, and then cast an insightful glance at Erik. A devious idea formed within his brilliant mind as he concocted the perfect answer to both his daughter's dilemma _and _her approaching birthday. _

_With a magnanimous whisper of assurance, he sent his daughter on her way, with the promise of something far more extravagant than that of her china doll. And so he turned to his silent companion, his nascent idea being weighted within his mind. _

_Erik had glanced at him questionably, suddenly suspicious of the tsar's growing smile. Alexander blatantly ignored the mark of suspicion within the golden eyes, and spoke his idea at last. _

"_Erik, I have noticed your talent in the construction of palaces and buildings range beyond the infinite," he began, an air of confidence resonating within his deep voice. "I wonder if you could perhaps construct something on a much, smaller level…"_

_And so Erik's ingenious work on the grand duchess' gift had begun… _

Alexander smiled; fond of the memory of his smiling daughter. Xenia's gift held the enticing appeal that intrigued all. And much like a child himself, he had watched in wonder as his daughter opened her gift. The seven-year-old had astounded the family with the exotic gift her father had graciously given her. In truth, no one knew of its origins, as its true creator remained obscured in the shadows of the palace.

No one would ever know the mysterious author of his daughter's gift. An elaborate house for her dolls did not only contain magnificence and grandeur, but also represented a palace akin to some of the ancient kingdoms of Persia.

With its walls aligned with pure gold and rare jewels, the tsar had paid a small fortune for his daughter's happiness. A set of mirrors complemented the translucent portions of the palace, giving it an almost tangible feel of reality.

But despite the beauty and elegance of this marvellous creation, Alexander found the toy's greatest achievement was its intricate system of mechanisms that only worked for Xenia's small hand. Her brothers, along with everyone else, could not breach its opening and the contents within it when locked. Erik had been so meticulous in his art that he considered a hidden part of the house could contain something akin to a trapdoor where the young grand duchess could conceal her dolls without fear of her brothers destroying them.

It was a toy beyond Alexander's recognition, one in which was barely completed before his daughter's birthday. And yet, the price he paid—as well as the true labour that went into it—was well worth its weight in gold. For Xenia, she had gained something that no other child had. And for himself, gained the possible knowledge of a memory that had long since eluded him.

"Erik," Alexander said, setting his thoughts aside. "I was wondering if you have ever visited Russia before. I mean I have noticed that you are quite adept in the Russian language, along with having decent knowledge of its history. Have you…lived or visited the country before?"

Erik considered the tsar, his false expression a perfect mask of indifference. "I have seen this land…long ago."

"Indeed," the tsar concurred, a subtle note of question hidden within his assent, "then perhaps you could answer a question for me." Seeing no objection on Erik's part, he continued. "I recall something from when I was a child—an intrigue of sorts. I remember some of the guards, along with many of the servants, talking about a Russian fair that seemed to travel from village to village."

Alexander stopped when he noticed his guest's lack of interest, but abruptly disregarded it. "There were sights that caught the interest of many, I am told. However, there was one spectacle that seemed to attract the attention of all. The show and its presenter allegedly entertained even princes from distant provinces. The acts were arcane, unprecedented by the rest of the troupe; a magician who was said to tame the very elements held and captivated many with his wondrous feats.

"I believe that he also contained knowledge that no other man could ever hope to possess. His shows were a legend in many parts, especially in the Nizhni Novgorod district." Alexander paused, his deliberate silence meaningful until he realized that Erik's expression had not changed by his words. Secretly disappointed, he resumed his story. "But suddenly he disappeared from the troupe. It was rumoured that he left for the shores of other countries, some of which desired his artistic and anomalous talents…"

The tsar ended his tale, his blue eyes a perfect study of deep thought. Erik noticed this, seeing the unasked question pervade and taunt the tsar's curious mind. It was intriguing that a man of Alexander's inexperience with ruling could be so insightful. And it was such a noisome quality that would serve well in his rule. The young man had damn well figured out his secret without realizing it.

Erik grinned underneath the mask, deciding to humour the man. "A finely-crafted story, your highness. I am sure that you attended at least one of these fairs in your youth."

Alexander frowned, and shook his head. "No. I was a small child when these fairs visited the capital. It was from the memories of the servants, not my own, I assure you." He laughed, despite himself, but then his tone became serious. "However, there is something that I do remember." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "The man—magician—had a name. I only recall that he went by the Christian name of Erik. And I found that the similarities between this conjurer of dreams and my guest a little too similar…" He smiled then, his eyes alight with a childish fascination that seemed to betray his grave tone. "I wonder if my conclusion is somehow correct, _Monsieur_ de Maricourt. I believe that _you_ may have the answers."

The deep, probing incentive within the tsar's words was meaningful, if not threatening in its own way. Erik considered this new revelation, deciding that by indulging the tsar, it would cease further accusation. "It is a marvellous coincidence," he began, his bland expression not betraying his inner disquiet, "but a coincidence, nonetheless. It seems that this Erik you speak of no longer exists in this part of the world. I daresay he could very well be laid to rest in the cellars of some grand, obscure structure somewhere."

The tsar's face fell. "Then you do not know of him?"

"No. I suppose I have never heard of another Erik, other than myself. I find that your suggestion, however, was interesting, if not amusing," he added blithely.

A deep sigh escaped Alexander as he acknowledged his error with heavy disappointment. He had hoped that his assumptions would have been proven true, that Erik was somehow connected with this enigmatic anomaly that had initially plagued his country with fanciful tales of a strange, yet appealing, allure that had exceeded other intrigues for well over thirty years.

And yet, he had been wrong on many things as of late… Besides, Erik, or at least the one from the servants' rumours, had to at least be in his late forties, if not older. The man before him was… No. It was inconceivable, just as Erik had said.

With this thought, Alexander immediately disregarded any beliefs opposing the obvious justifications that Erik had so graciously given him. In truth, it seemed highly unlikely, if not impossible in the aspect of coincidence.

"I suppose you are right, Erik," Alexander said at last. "It seems that I was mistaken in my assumptions. A child's memory can be so easily misguided when it becomes an adult. And yet it seems that those are the best times in life, are they not?" His smile faltered when he noticed the inauspicious glare within Erik's eyes.

"Indeed, your highness," Erik replied, his voice distant, frigid as he placed a set of designs on Alexander's desk. "I believe that, if you have no further need of me, I must see my wife."

Alexander glanced at the clock and its late hour, and then nodded in unspoken understanding. "I believe I have held you well over our allotted time, Erik. Forgive me," he muttered, his movements contrived in a nervous gesture of dismissal. "Go to your wife, then. I am sure that she has been waiting for you."

Erik said nothing to Alexander, only nodded to him before taking his leave as the brilliant fires of an emotion deemed long since dead burned menacingly within his golden eyes. The thought of his childhood and past left only the dull ache of what could be considered as resentment—resentment for the hellish life he was bestowed with, for Christine's god had a cruel sense of irony.

He turned his thoughts away from the deity, to Christine and the continuum of her unending nightmares. The darkness that seemed to consume her very essence reminded him of a night she had spent with him in his house by the lake. The faint, yet strikingly odd, similarities made him reconsider his beliefs as the memory of it overcame his firm incredulity of her alleged _visions_…

_The incoherent mumblings he had heard from her room stirred him out of his silent repose, as if summoning him to bear witness to the unarticulated ramblings of his protégée, the beautiful lull of her angelic voice coercing him into its hypnotic song of intrigue. _

_But as moved as he was to hear the soft, unfettered words of a foreign tongue, he knew it was of an ancient language, one in which she would not be practiced in. The disjointed words of a primeval Welsh dialect had only furthered his concern as she cried out two names, in which he would never dare utter, for the similarities were too…unsettling. It was as if she was looking through a window to the past, and the history of it had seemed to unfold painfully before her._

_He urged her to awaken by the gentle whisper of her name, and she stirred at his words—only to reveal her startled, tearful expression which caused him to flinch at the unveiled horror found within her eyes. But in spite of the terror her visage had conveyed for his unmasked face, he gazed into those lovely, troubled azure spheres of pain as she trembled at his touch. Her placid assertions that followed only furthered his dismay when she assured him that it was merely a dream, and though she was grateful for his concern, she did not wish to distress him over nothing. But regardless of this, the slight hesitation within her voice had all but set aside his reservations in leaving her, not when he longed to wipe away such wounded tears before they fell. _

_And yet, he had conceded, leaving her once again to the darkness and despair of her dreams. His sole consideration had been to somehow give her a temporary release from the ever-present shadows of his home, and decided to alleviate her sadness—and perhaps gain her confidence in him once more—by taking her on a ride through the Bois de Boulogne, as he would, in the end, annihilate all thought of something as trivial and senseless as a dream…_

He inwardly balked at the memory of his vain attempts of placating her fears then. The mordant reflection upon his own sense of beliefs went unchanged, however, as he cast it aside and crossed the hall that led to his private chambers. Christine would be there, waiting ever so patiently for the payment of a night's kindness.

His eyes gleamed with unprecedented delight. Such a foolish child was she to believe that she could somehow obtain something for nothing, he darkly reflected. And yet, the appreciation within tearstained her eyes had not evaded his notice. For by some odd twist of fate, it seemed that Christine had actually enjoyed his being there, even his cold embrace had been welcomed by her.

He remembered the way she held onto him as she slept, her dreamless slumber untainted by the nightmares that plagued her. The insignificant, yet visible, smile she emitted seemed childlike, almost innocent in a way.

But despite her youth, Erik had aptly noticed the woman who lingered beneath her child's façade. He could no longer deny that his Christine was a woman, a woman who obtained the innate power to enthral even the lowliest of devils.

And once more, the yearnings of an ancient desire burned within him, consuming his callous judgment as he held her throughout the turbulent night until the early hours of an impending dawn. Christine had been unaware of the danger that raged within her guardian, wholly ignorant of her carelessness in staying with him.

Erik closed his magnificent golden eyes, his mind a torrent of endless imaginings. The very idea Christine inspired not only held a zealous approach of unrivalled fury, but also something else…something he dare not name. To awaken such desires, which had long since ceased their torment upon his person, would be dire, if not deadly.

He would not subject her to that. His bride had to remain perfect, untainted by the hands of man. And she would, he vowed. Oh, _she_ would remain a pillar of untouched beauty; just as _he_ paralleled her flawless grace.

But in spite of this altruistic notion, he could not obey the minute conscience that cried for him to relent upon this agonising pursuit. He refused to surrender his one demand of her: the price she was willing to pay for a night's liberation of the dreams that haunted her.

His dark mind considered this, the cold deliberation of what he wanted of her oddly tempted him. He could ask no less for her soul this night, and he would have it. As no self-ingrained law, no strain of conscience, and no unearthly god could deny him after half a century's waiting.

And his bride would, despite her inevitable pleas to retract their strange agreement, grant him this one desire.

…

The heavy strains of an unmarked silence moved deftly throughout the evening's growing twilight. For the day itself seemed to linger, as if holding a dire omen for what was to come. The pretentious notion of such crude knowledge could only signify the dread that augmented within her.

And for the course of thirteen unending hours, Christine had pondered what the night would bestow upon her. The bitter certainty of her careless actions the previous night had initiated her present worry, thus bringing her to this foreboding juncture since the tragic moment of Erik's abandonment of her as the first, glorious rays of the rising sun penetrated the gallery window's heavy drapes, and coldly leaving her to a refuge found only within the light. And it was in this warm, compromising safety that she felt truly alone.

She frowned at the memory of his leaving her, as she could only confess that she missed him. To awaken without his cold embrace embracing her, she felt only a temporal distortion, where her reason lingered upon the edge of despair. She felt robbed, somehow lessened without him.

And yet, she knew that whatever madness drove her into his arms, she could no longer admit that it was only to cease the fears derived from a false dream. No, she enjoyed his being there, the feel of his arms encircling her, his ungloved hands daring to touch her so intimately. God only knew what thoughts churned within her dreams, for she could not recall what idyllic fantasy her spider's mind wove.

She silently chastised herself for such aberrant thoughts. Why did she consider such horrific fantasies? The very idea of being more than a false bride to Erik was unthinkable, if not sinful. It would be nothing less than sacrilege to abandon her conscience and give in to this unknown, unwanted desire that seemed to only punish her with its impossibilities. She had barely been free of her previous engagement with…

Christine closed her eyes, as the pangs of deep regret compelled her to pray by delivering her from such folly. Yet she paused in mid-prayer, considering what she was pleading for. For to deny herself of the blissful dreams that came only with the fall of darkness and accept a lifetime of nightmares in the light was something she would not consent to, not even for the sanity of her torn mind.

Erik was the only one who could expel the pain and agony of living. With his voice, he could quell the inner storm that raged within her, and drive away the foreboding feeling of impending doom. Even her thoughts had been strangely vacant of the enigmatic Count Drazlovsky of late.

The Russian lord who haunted her mind with his silvery eyes had deserted her, if only for a fleeting moment. The temporary reprieve granted to her would never guard her from another portentous meeting. And deep within herself she knew that Erik would not always be there to protect her from such a damning figure.

A sigh of frustration escaped her as she considered her other dilemma: the never-ending pretence she had to ensue, which only foretold the inevitability of all the lies and moments of deceit would finally confront her, and condemn her by the just means of an enraged monarchy.

Erik's creation was almost perfected. She was the ultimate deceiver when it came to petty acts of prose, which she would utter with the delicate grace of a skilled impostor. The myriad of lies, along with the unending display of her partial patrician's background, had given her the basis of a false life in which she contrived.

And it was a false life that she almost believed in…

A stray tear fell in shame, and her head inclined with bitter remorse as the heavy throws of guilt overcame her. _Oh, Papa, look at your precious Little Lotte now. She has failed you, just as you failed to promise her an angel, _she thought bitterly, cursing her own stupidity.

Christine's dark meditations proceeded well into the next hour. And Time itself had passed, as if in seconds when the great doors of the chamber opened, revealing the hauntingly familiar face of her husband. _Pretend husband_, she corrected as her eyes reluctantly fell upon the unmoving figure, and then fell away to the safety of the floor. His rigid composure would silence the dead.

With this belief, she reluctantly moved away from the bed, ready to accept the fate he would cast upon her. "Erik," she murmured in dull recognition, her eyes remaining upon the ancient Persian carpet.

The figure removed itself from the threshold, closing the massive set of doors behind it. The unmistakable fluidity of its movements was only preceded by its graceful gait, which was no less significant as its daunting appearance, for the ominous hood of the ebony cloak concealed much of its features, obscured it to the point of vague realization.

The former prima donna found herself secretly irritated by the obscurity, wishing to unmask the figure before her. Erik's consistency in hiding behind a mask—and cloak—was almost too much for her to accept. It was if he was unwilling of her to see beyond the tragedy of his face, which, in all actuality, he was. Erik would never reveal himself to her—ever. It was an unspoken agreement, made in the few moments before her introduction with the tsar so many months ago.

But despite this assumed covenant, Christine found that she refused to accept her fulfilment of their agreement as he watched behind the safe confines of his damned hooded cloak. And with this revelation, she grasped the edge of the hood with a pale hand, pulling it aside. She smiled at her triumph as she gazed upon the impassive mask of her brooding guardian.

Her silent act of defiance, however, did not go unpunished as the coarse coating of Erik's glove twisted around her offensive hand, its skeletal embrace a promising forewarning. Yellow eyes smouldered beyond the almond eye slits of the mask. "Christine…" his acidic voice muttered, the cold leather holding her hand in place. "My dear Christine…"

"Erik, please," Christine pleaded, her eyes looking to his imploringly, beseeching him to relent this pitiful display of cruelty.

Despite her pleas, he ignored her. "You fear my touch, do you not? You fear to touch the flesh of one dead, and yet you dare wish to see its hideous visage. What a beautiful paradox you are, Christine," he commended. "I daresay you are indeed a treasure." The gloved prison released her captive hand, as its master watched Christine's expression etch itself into a mask of surprise. "Now tell me of your day."

Christine stared at him, dumbfounded by his words. In a maddened moment, he had displayed only contempt for her actions, as the passing squall of his ire was instantly replaced by…curiosity, a remote, almost childlike curiosity that overwhelmed her beyond words. She remained silent for a moment, before finding the courage to speak. "It went well with the empress. And what of you, Erik? Was your day well?"

"The tsar's company was tolerable, if not amusing in some aspects," he answered, his impassive words creating a frown upon Christine's face. "However, I believe that your company was much more desired, my dear."

"Erik…"

He moved closer to her, his masked face hovering over her naked visage. "You do realise why I have come to you?" A gloved hand moved to its place at the curve of her jaw. "You have something I desire, Christine. And I want it. I want what you promised me."

"You cannot mean…" She paled at his words and the abstract subtlety that tainted them. "I will not…" She retreated from him, carelessly running to the sanctuary of the unmade bed.

Erik's yellow eyes gleamed at the concrete blasphemy of her insolence. He moved, wordlessly, to her, his rigid exterior revealing the sheer evidence of his displeasure. A hand clasped a bare shoulder as he held her in place. "Christine, you cannot defy me," he muttered, the violence within his eyes burning with malice.

"Then be done with it, Erik. Do not force me to endure this cruel game of yours, knowing what you truly want of me," she cried, turning away from him.

A passing of understanding extinguished the fire within his eyes as Christine's words registered within his mind. His hold on her shoulder lightened to a feather's caress. "Christine, look at me," he spoke at last, the light tone of his undeniably emphatic, yet gentle.

Christine turned to look at him, her eyes mirroring the same fear as before. "Erik, I…"

"No," he silenced her, his gloved fingers moving to quiet her trembling lips. "Do not speak, only listen to me." His luminous eyes closed in their golden brilliance, leaving only darkness beyond the false eye slits. "You must never believe that I would ever ask that of you. No man will touch you, Christine…Including myself." His head inclined as his eyes opened to look at her. He moved to wipe a tear away from her hollow cheek. "You must trust me on this, Christine," his melodic voice lightened a small fraction, "I cannot have an impure wife. You know this…"

She smiled, despite the inner turmoil that churned within her. In her ignorance, she had gravely misjudged him. How could she dare to think, or even believe, that he would defile her in such a crude manner? Had he not saved her from such, by promising to shield her with the protection of his name?

"Of course." She moved to place a hand upon his shoulder, not daring to touch his sacred mask. "Forgive me. I thought…" She paused, as her expression changed to one of childish splendour. "What is it you desire, and I shall grant it."

The hold on her jaw changed significantly as it moved away, falling to embrace her other shoulder. The stability of his power over her moved with an inexorable grace to guide her to the bed, the subtle command within his eyes entreating, her to sit. With her compliance, he released her from the foreboding prison of his icy touch, seating himself opposite of her. She blushed under his scrutiny, looking at her cradled hand.

The intrigue that Christine incited compelled him to speak: "I ask only for one thing." He looked upon her considerably as his voice became more forceful. "I want something precious—something that belongs to you, and no one else. I desire something that you have never shared with anyone. No one knows of it, or is even aware of its existence."—His tone implied the young Vicomte de Chagny, in particular—"I want something of your past, Christine." His words were profound, his golden eyes demanding, coercing. "I want something that you have brought with you, a memory. That is my price." A cold finality within his words.

A moment of unabridged silence fell between them. The still, unspoken question within Christine's eyes portrayed a remote incredulity as her sable brows pursed together in uncertainty. The promised price of last night was within her ability to give, though it seemed too sacred to divulge.

Nevertheless, Christine stilled herself against her childish notions and gave in to Erik's request. "What memory would you like, Erik? Ask, and it will be yours."

Erik stared at Christine, his golden eyes piercing her with a radiant intensity that seared her. The slight blush upon her cheeks compelled him to speak: "I desire one of your childhood—one before you came to Paris, before…"

Her face softened at his hesitance. He desired something pure and untainted by the Parisian world in which they knew only too well. And yet it ran deeper than that. Like a child denied the joys of a life of ignorance, so had he been denied the pleasures of a normality that every child had. And with this harsh, bitter realization, Christine understood the reason behind his request. It was to have a piece of something he had been deprived of, unused to with only the fleeting hope of obtaining it, if only for a fleeting moment.

And it was something she could not deny him of…

A pale hand found itself rest upon the cold ebony leather of Erik's glove. Christine glanced at the strange, symbolic union, and then looked at Erik, an inviting smile upon her serene face. "Then I shall tell you of the _Skogsfru_…"

And thus, Christine divulged her own dark tale that had been derived from the Northern borders of imagination…

"When my mother passed away, she left Papa and me behind. My father was, to say the least, devastated by my mother's passing. He could not bear to stay in the small cottage that we owned, nor did he have the desire to live there anymore. I suppose the memories and anguish of his loss were still too new to him that it pained him to even see his own daughter…

"It was then that he decided to leave our home. We would travel, and leave our grief behind in that small cottage." She frowned at her words, but continued at the silent urging within her guardian's eyes. "And so my father sold what little land we had." She looked away from him then, her eyes downcast. "It would be the last time I would ever see my home, or even my mother's grave."

"Christine…" Erik said after her momentary silence, "you never told me."

Christine looked at him, her eyes countering his. "I barely remember my mother, Erik. My father was…reluctant to speak of her. And when he did, there was always an old, unshed set of tears in his eyes." She bit her bottom lip in profound thought. "And yet, he never cried over her. Not once. I believe he wished to shield me from that pain." Her words then became more thoughtful. "And in a sense, he did. He truly did.

"For you must understand that my father was a gifted musician, prolific in his own way. I believe that no other could compare to the manner in which he played." She paused for a moment, sighing at the worn memory. Only the gentle pull of Erik's hand urged her to continue. "His music was what ensured our stay at the fairs. And it was at one that I learned to never stray from his side…

"Spring had come early that year." She smiled at the memory. "And because of it, the fair added a new list of performances. My father was among them, of course, but it was the children who came…"

"The children?" Erik questioned lightly.

Christine nodded. "It had only been a year after Mother died, and with the exception of my father and the attendants at the fair, there was no one…I had no one my age, you see, for I was the only child who travelled with the fair." She flushed at her own embarrassment, but nevertheless continued. "And so when children visited, I had the chance to be…"

"Normal," he answered for her, a vague understanding reaching the fathomless depths of his eyes. After a long moment of deliberated silence, he encouraged her to resume her story, and received a gentle nod in compliance.

"Yes," she intoned quietly. "And in a sense, I felt deprived of my childhood, having no real friend to confide in." She cradled her hands in silent reflection. "I do not hold my father responsible for it, because I understand why he kept me away from others, for I was all he had left after Mother. He never wished to let me go, as he had her."

Erik considered her soft-spoken words, clearly noticing the mark of hesitance behind them. And although she had excused any blame towards her father, he could not. From his understanding, Christine did not live the untroubled life of a child whose alleged existence bordered on the edge of normalcy. No, she was denied the happiness one should have, just as he had been. His hand tightened around hers then, as if giving her the solace her father should have given.

Christine noticed this reserved change in him, and it gave her the strength to finish her story. "My father preferred that I always stay with him when he played; I was forbidden to ever leave the fairgrounds without his permission." The archness of her smile widened. "And yet, I must confess that I disobeyed him, once."

At the arch of the mask's curved brow Christine continued. "It was in that spring that the managers of the fair decided to move to a larger city where more people would be enabled to frequent it. The town, of course, granted the managers' wish and allowed them to use the grounds on its outskirts.

"It was, in a sense, perfect. For beyond the fair lay a heavily wooded area, almost a forest you would find in a faerie story. The trees were heavily enshrouded, leaving it difficult for the eye to see past the mass of vines and weeds.

"Many of the children who attended the fair left to play in this tangible wilderness." She hesitated, her voice holding a faint trace of remorse. "I knew that my father would forbid me to go. And it hurt me to know that, but I scarcely understood his reasons. I mean what harm could it do if I were to play with children my own age? I had been without company since I left my own village, and I only wished to have at least one moment with them, to remember what it felt like before…everything."

"And so you left, without your father's knowledge," he concluded for her. "I am sure repercussions were in order, once he discovered you were missing."

Christine laughed at his words. "He was not pleased, to say the least. I was barely in the woods with the other children when he found me." She shook her head in a rueful manner. "I remember what he said as he pulled me out of the underbrush. '_Christine, did you realize if I had not come upon when I did, that the _Skogsfru _could have gotten you, and you would have never seen me again?'_"

She stopped when she saw the uncertainty within his eyes. Apparently, he was unaware of the myth that her Scandinavian blood knew only too well. She thus decided to enlighten him. "The _Skogsfru_ are allegedly beautiful creatures who take unsuspecting souls away from the reality of the world, as they steal the very essence of life from their victims. My father told me that happened to unsuspecting children who trespassed into the woods…

"However, he failed to mention that the _Skogsfru_, though beautiful in face and form and shape, had a hideous backside that lay concealed from its victim. They were beautiful maidens of the wood, nymphs in their own way…

"…Who only seduced men, and took their souls from them. My father seemed to have forgotten that part of the tale," she said mirthfully, her apologetic expression visible in its entirety. "I suppose it was his gentle way of telling me to stay with him, and away from those I did not know."

"Gentle indeed," Erik answered after a silent moment. "So that is what you have kept secret, for all of these years."

"Yes," Christine replied, her thoughtful expression moving to one of sadness. "I never told anyone else of it, not even…" She hesitated, her mind setting aside the painful reminder as she added, "I believe that some things should be kept secret, hidden close to one's heart, so the world will never see." A muted sigh escaped her. "It is silly, I realise. But it is one of the memories that I treasure."

Erik glanced at her, nonplussed. "And then you came to Paris." His yellow eyes bore deeply into hers. "Do you miss your home, Christine? Do you miss the cottage, where all of your memories are held?"

Christine closed her eyes as the deftness of his voice and the notable inquiry behind it pierced her heart, shattering it. He had the audacity to ask something personal, something so sacredly buried within the ancient tomes of her heart. And yet, she could not deny him, nor could she hate him for questioning her.

"No," she said at last. "I do not miss it. It has not been my home for some time now, not since my father took whatever remnants of it with us. I doubt I would ever return and acknowledge it as such," she stopped when she felt a hand press against her cheek.

"Then we share a common bond, my dear," Erik murmured in the stilled silence. "It seems that we have both forsaken our homes…"

A vague sense of unease melded to blind curiosity as Christine stared at him, wondering. "What do you mean, Erik? Did your mother also take you from your home?"

His hand fell away from her face. "No, I ran away from her." A bitter laugh escaped him. "She lived in that poor excuse of a house until she passed away from this world, leaving her…son behind."

Christine frowned at his words. "Did she not care for you, at all?" she asked; a hint of upset within her tremulous voice.

The golden eyes that lay beyond the mask regarded her with muted consideration, his cold visage remaining in a state of rigid apathy. Erik looked upon his bride, noticing the disquiet that emanated from her, as the heavy throes of unspoken anger seethed under her concrete beauty. Christine's ire for his mother was a dramatic parallel to the years of anguish he once endured.

And despite this unwilling show of weakness, Erik sighed as the age-old animosity within him fell away into bitter shards of indifference; the memory of the woman who bore him haunting his mind once more. The dark, resentful anger stilled itself within him, his eyes remaining upon his Christine. He looked at her, finally understanding. Her fragile innocence could never know the pain and rejection of one so young, for even a monster felt the cold validity of heartache. How could she take pity upon him when his own mother had not?

The image of the wintry matron pervaded his mind with her devastating beauty. Long golden tresses of hair remained in a flawless state of resplendent grace; the verdant glow of her emerald eyes cold, icy in their regard of him. It was a wonderful contrast to the show of concern within Christine's eyes.

"You must understand, Christine. My mother was beautiful where I was hideous. The madness of spawning such an abomination drove her to despise her malformed son."

Erik ignored her stifled gasp and said, "In her depression, she refused to even name her only child. And so, I was left with the _honour_ of naming myself since _she_ was unable to." He felt her hand tighten around his, a deep frown twisting his veiled lips as he ventured, "It was by mere chance that I came upon my name, Christine."

"My God," Christine muttered, as she inclined her head in disbelief. The tears of a distant, unmarked anger brimmed within her eyes; then fell into the harsh silence, cascading down her ivory face as the pain of what he had endured burned within her heart.

It was not until she felt the calming caress of his hand that she realized her sadness was almost tangible. "What are these tears, Christine?" she heard him ask, the warmth in his voice compelling her to answer.

And she obeyed.

"No mother should _ever_ regard her child in such a cruel manner." The belief within her words reflected itself within her azure gaze. "She did not deserve the brilliant son she was unjustly blessed with," she muttered in a faint whisper, her eyes turning away from him in shame.

With her admission, Erik knew that her anger was not only directed at his mother, but also toward herself. Perhaps the pity he had once mistaken as love truly existed. In some small form, at least. The weight of her words and the remorse of her cruelty seemed to devour her, purifying her from the weakness that once cloaked her in its cowardice. The sorrow upon her face became her, as the hand that held his strengthened in its weakened state. Erik revelled in this. The fleeting, yet visible, show of understanding lingered profoundly within her eyes. She was not afraid to touch him, or to even be with him in this unending darkness.

And with this, Erik once again touched her face, the gloved skeletal fingers tracing against the flesh where her tears had been. His head inclined, the few strands of his remaining hair gracing against the porcelain mask. "Christine," he whispered into the darkness.

Christine closed her eyes at the utterance of her name, her face leaning against his offered hand. "Yes, Erik?" she breathed heavily as the serenity within his touch possessed her with thousand unknown sensations of unfettered exultation.

He leaned in, his face hovering slightly above hers, almost touching. The brilliance of his yellow eyes smouldered, burning within the depths of his empty sockets. He was so close to her, closer than he had been the previous night—and yet so far away.

His hand stilled against her cheek, feeling the warm silken texture under his concealed fingers. A silent curse came to his mind as he longed to touch her without any barrier between them. To feel her living skin against his dead, rotting flesh made him shudder with impossibilities his demented mind could only dare to imagine.

The unfeeling muscle within his chest wrenched in scarring agony as he stared upon the true innocence that completed her. The lovely azure eyes that held the entirety of the world within them were closed, shielding the wealth of both suffering and delight behind the pale lids. Her lips were opened slightly with an ardent invitation.

Christine was bearing herself to him, trusting him so completely that she cast aside any reservation that would condemn her for this blatant display of desire. And it was this singular desire that reflected itself within his eyes.

For although she was ignorant of such intimacy; he was not. He knew where this moment had led them. The increasing sense of awareness mixed with mutual desire persuaded him to move forward, the coldness of his mask pressing against her forehead.

A shuddered breath escaped Christine when she felt Erik press the coldness of his mask against her, the false lips barely a breadth above hers. Her eyes opened then, their languid gaze falling upon him. Erik. The man who held the broken face of an indifferent god whose endless existence graced her lowly mortal form with its magnanimous presence.

"Erik." His name gracefully fell upon her lips as her hands moved, coiling around his resolute arms. She felt the thin muscle and fragile sinews tighten under her tentative touch, but ignored it. Only when she heard him utter her name into the darkness did she succumb to this unspoken need.

Never before, Christine reasoned within the remnants of her tattered mind, had she felt at such peace. The absolute calm that Erik invoked within her had rendered her silent, blinding any thought that cried for her to relent and escape such madness. And deep inside, her woman's heart knew that Erik felt this intrinsic connection as well. It was a bond that would forever remain unbroken, for not even Death or the relentless strands of Time could ever dare hope to defy it.

But as the moment consumed them both, Erik pulled away from her, leaving her in a shattered state of confusion. "Rest, Christine," he muttered, and hastily removed himself from the bed.

"But, Erik…" she tried to speak, but was silenced by the harsh rebuke of a gloved hand.

"You must rest," he said, unmoving in his rigid stance. "Your debt to me has been paid."

Christine looked down, her serene face in utter ruin. "Goodnight, then," she managed weakly, turning her trembling back to him.

Erik said nothing to her silent dismissal of him as he turned away, the last beautiful sight of his fallen angel lingering on the edge of his fragile mind. But despite this, he could say nothing to her, or find the words within himself to console her of his abrupt coldness. The innocence that became her would be shattered if she knew…

The thought of her…with him was immediately cast aside, as he cursed it. The idea of Christine becoming a wife to him in _every_ way was as damning as it was tempting. He could never touch her. And yet, he confessed to the darkest part of himself that he was almost willing to set aside his misgivings about everything, including her alleged part in his attempted assassination.

Would Christine come to him willingly, then? Would she forgive him for the cruelties he imparted on her? Could she dare look upon him without the secret fear that he would one day be the death of her?

_Oh, Christine_, his mind cried her name, but was only greeted with the deafening silence of her soundless voice, her voice which was now broken. She was imperfect to him now, utterly useless. But it did not matter. Nothing mattered except the knowledge that she would remain with him, even after death.

He recalled the tears she had shed for him and her cold condemnation of his mother. Did his angel truly pity the disfigured boy he once was, and in turn despise the beautiful woman who bore him?

It was a question he would always have, but would never ask, just as he could not deny her tears this night. The vague sincerity she had shown graced him with was the comfort he once sought as a child, only to have been denied until now…

And it was with this unspoken admission that Erik decided their fates. For although he would never disavow the feelings she inspired in him, he refused to release her from a life as his bride. Christine would remain with him and revel in the life he had chosen for them. She would be content with him.

He would make it so.

…

**Author's Note: My apologies once again for taking so long. I have had a busy semester at college, and then everything else. Life truly has not been the same without my father. And so between trying to sell the house and everything else, I am trying to post these late, late chapters. (I am almost finished with chapter seventeen, by the way!) But also, I must confess that I am working on another story from a different genre, as well. I just needed a break from _Phantom_ before I lost interest in it. But worry not; I _will_ get this story finished. Indeed, I do not expect it to go on for much longer. We are almost at the end of the second arc, and will very soon reach the third and final part of this story! **

**But anyway, this chapter was a pleasure to write, seeing as it truly marks the beginning to whatever relationship Erik and Christine may have. I know that the last chapter moved the characters forward, but this was the actual shift in the story. And I am so happy I can set aside some of the angst for at least the next few chapters. That, and perhaps Christine will cease her incessant crying over everything. She truly is a sensitive young woman. **

**The flashback concerning Christine's dream was also taken from Erik's memories of their time together in his home by the lake. It has nothing to do with her present worries or fears. I debated greatly on whether to keep this scene or mention it at a later time, but decided to leave it here since it somewhat works as I initially hoped it would. I must also confess that I wanted to make a passing, probable mention as to one of the reasons why Erik took her to the Bois in the original novel. Perhaps his concern for her led him to the kindness seen during that two-week interval. **

**And I would like to mention that Alexander certainly hit the nail on the dart. The irony in which Erik uses when he mentions the buried remains of Alexander's elusive magician is so thick that one could very well cut it with a knife. I just couldn't resist the idea of Alexander figuring it out, and yet believing himself to be wrong when he was actually right. Poor Alexander…**

**Also, I wish to mention that any small nuance you see with the historical characters, like Alexander's professed faith in the Russian Orthodoxy _is_ historically accurate. I studied his background and discovered that not only did he have firm religious beliefs that opposed any other religion, he also did not favour Germans and those affiliated with Queen Victoria**'**s English court. Actually, she called him something along the lines of 'a sovereign she does not look upon as a gentleman' once. So…It goes to show that history can be interesting, even though many may find certain figures to be less than what they had hoped for…**

**I also wish to forewarn everyone that the next few chapters—chapters fifteen through seventeen especially—are going to be somewhat relatively short compared to my previous chapters. The reason for this being that I am going to focus more on Erik and Christine's relationship, and not the main plot of the story. Trust me; the main plot is subtly working itself in behind the scenes. **

**Also, before I forget, I have posted not one update, but two. This chapter made me realise that I could not go too in-depth with Erik's childhood because of timing, wordage, and pace. Really, this chapter would have been well 20,000 words had I done that. So I compromised. I have posted something of a prelude to this story, which can found in my author's account under the title _Fall from the Angel's Grace_. _The Angel's Plight _is actually an adjoining piece to _Fall._ **

**It's not necessary to read them, but I believe they will somewhat explain why Erik sets aside his anger and decides to let his belief of Christine's guilt go. Also, I forewarn everyone now that his past is based primarily on my own beliefs. There are no elements containing any other author's work other than what Leroux faintly gives in the original novel. Also, there is brief mention of neglect, emotional, and slight physical abuse. I truly believe that Erik's childhood was not a happy one, and that he learned quite a lot from his mother, especially the ability to hate.**

**But anyway, I wish to thank everyone again for all of the wonderful reviews! Truly, I appreciate each one I receive! Thanks again! ;) **


	16. Chapter Fifteen: The Lady Without Mercy

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Fifteen.

Christine stared beyond the grand foyer's stained-glass window, its elaborate design holding nothing but only dismal appeal as her thoughts lingered upon a face that contradicted all notions of legitimate beauty, the odd fascination of that which was obscured intrigued her, tormented her in a blissfully sorrowful way that compelled her to reconsider the previous night.

She inwardly frowned as a deep-rooted pain within her heart forced her to understand the truth behind—_everything_. The strange curiosity that had once inundated her mind was stripped away as all thoughts turned to one thing that now overwhelmed her already reeling mind: Erik.

The very thought of him caused her heart to ache. What madness stirred within him to touch her? The memory of his longing gaze, which had been filled with both pain and sorrow, had inevitably reflected the unknown, unspoken feelings that irrevocably besieged her. She could still feel the icy remnants of desire his fingers left upon her, his reserved caresses blinding her with unfettered confusion. And how she desired to feel those cold, murdering fingers upon her again…

She silently berated herself as a stab of guilt overcame such errant longings. The promise to her former betrothed had not even been broken a month as she desired another to—she could not even consider it. The idea itself was as asinine as the pleading look she imagined seeing upon Erik's expressionless mask, the deadened stare of it reminding her of her own childish foolishness.

It was a device Erik used to shatter the shards of her remaining innocence. She was a fool to believe that something would become their farce of a marriage. Erik would never come to care for her as he once had. And the unwanted knowledge of that one final truth pained her.

But as she moved to contemplate her unending dilemma all thoughts ceased the moment she noticed that she was in the presence of another. The future tsar stared at her, his inquisitive eyes holding only curiosity within their indigo depths. A timid smile graced his boyish expression, causing him to look away from her, his eyes studying the unobtrusive stained-glass window.

"Your grace," Christine quietly acknowledged him, her delicate head inclining in reverence.

The smile widened at her words, and Nicholas glanced at her shyly, timidly, his hands fidgeting with a leather riding crop. "_Madam_ de Maricourt," he murmured gently. "I did not expect you to be here. I thought that you would be with Mother, or with…" He shook his head, muttering incoherent explanations under his breath. His blue eyes then looked at her fully, and he nodded, as if allowing a private thought to be spoken. "I recall making an offer to show you the palace gardens, and it seems we have not done so. I wish to fulfil that promise to you."

He bowed to her, offering her a gloved hand. She accepted it, and he grinned, mischievously. "And it also seems that your acceptance has gotten me out of another tedious riding lesson. I am eternally grateful to you, _madam_," he said, leading her away from the main foyer and into the greater halls of the palace.

She watched the tsarevich, his gentle gait confident, despite the resolute manner his father wished to instil him with. The shy timidity displayed within his character only embellished a softer, more fragile side to him. It was a direct contrast to what she had learned of the Russian monarchy.

And it was such innocence, Christine quietly thought, that would either save or destroy an empire. However, she discounted the possibility since the country had survived through the face of war and tyranny. Even the great Bonaparte could not render the persistent faith of the Russian people, finding the elements and simplicity behind such warfare convenient, if not practical in the art of war.

Nicholas smiled at her then, and she concealed her present conjectures, not wishing to impart the inevitable truth of his obligations of ruling a country upon him. The young man was still a child in many ways. And so, she returned his smile, as she considered his diffident expression.

"The gardens are lovely, your grace." Her hands descended upon the fragile petals of a gardenia. "They even rival those of Versailles."

The tsarevich gently sighed. "Truly?" he asked, his tentative gaze resting upon the flower she touched. "I would know nothing of flowers, _madam_, I assure you. My knowledge runs to mainly history and the sciences of dead philosophers. Mother finds it important to learn of even the smallest element in existence, as Father believes business of state to be even more important." Nicholas grunted in disgust. "I doubt I will ever be capable of obtaining both of their beliefs, seeing as I prefer neither."

He looked at her then, his idle stare calculating. "And since I have the influence over all, I would prefer it if called me Nicholas, if only in private. I cannot stand for this 'your grace' nonsense to last a moment longer." His pleading eyes entreated her. "Please, you must do me this honour."

Christine stared at him in unveiled surprised, his appeal rendering her silent. The young man was as profoundly controlling as his mother—the informality the Russian court inspired differed greatly from the haughty renown of the French aristocracy. Even in the privacy of the French court one would be unable to address other informally. And ironically, formality was the least of the differences found between both courts that spoke the same language.

In spite of these truths, she gave in to the tsarevich's request. "As you wish, Nicholas," she replied, submitting to his will. "We shall remain informal—only in the privacy of our company."

"_Merci_, Christine," he returned with refined diligence. "My mother was right when she said that you were, by far, one of the most intriguing of ladies she has ever had the pleasure to meet. I doubt that even my Aunt Alexandra and Uncle Edward have had the pleasure to have anyone such as you in their courts."

She blushed at his compliments, quietly recalling that his alleged aunt and uncle—that he so indifferently cast aside in his praises—were none other than part of the infamous English royal court. His idle remarks proved as much, she mused as she nodded in understanding. Nicholas, though introverted in his methodical approach to eulogize her, had the kindness to refrain from indulging himself too much on her behalf. In truth, she found that he was, perhaps, intrigued by her, if not harbouring a small tender for her.

The idle thought made her frown as she recognized the potential harm it would regrettably cause. Once before she had seen that besotted look in the eyes of those who carried such a hopeless fascination, and sadly finding only the cold validity of the rejection they would encounter. The myriad of affairs between stagehands and members of the _corps de ballet_ only furthered her beliefs. The young tsarevich, she feared, also carried the same, damnable interest.

"Is anything wrong?" he softly asked, his gentle face showing concern. "You seem troubled by something. I hope that I have not done anything to offend you, Christine. I—"

"You have done nothing wrong," Christine replied, dissolving his voiced concern. She smiled at him, secretly hoping to assuage his fears. "I was merely thinking of how beautiful this place is, and how I strangely do not miss Paris," she said, not realizing how true her words actually were.

Nicholas nodded, silently noticing how beautiful she was when she smiled so freely, so beautifully. To him, she was almost perfect, like Odysseus' fabled siren personified in mortal flesh. An innate arrow of jealousy pierced his heart as he considered the strange, masked anomaly who; by the cruelty of some strange fate, had her. And he knew that no other man could turn her attention away from the golden-eyed creature that concealed its face.

The rumours and scandalous gossip in the servant's quarters inundated the halls with senseless chatter as a myriad of affairs and secrets were revealed. Not once had he not heard of the many conquests princes and lords had over revered ladies, he even had the displeasure of acknowledging the conduct of those who followed the orthodox faith. The hypocrisy of it disgusted him, as the knowledge of Christine's _husband_ moved him to revulsion.

Several theories, each legitimate in its own speculation, were based upon what lay beneath the white porcelain mask of the tsar's strange guest. No one had seen him without it, and thus forced all to conclude that some scarring or horrid deformity resided under cracked surface.

He knew that it was cruel to deem—or even judge—that such a trivial thing as a scarred face mattered. No one, he realized, was perfect in that degree. But to understand why someone as beautiful and talented as Christine de Maricourt could ever dare love a man who hid himself behind a mask baffled him. How could a man not accept his own flaws as he paraded his lovely wife in front of others? What did he _have_ to hide?

The question within his mind remained unanswered as he regarded Christine. He had watched her from afar these last weeks, always considering what could never be. He inwardly scolded himself for such absurd thoughts; the futility in such a pursuit would only grieve him in the end. The wrath of an irate husband could never compare to the wrath of his own father. And with this he knew that his subtle attempt to charm her would only be deemed as a childish infatuation.

Nevertheless, he would show kindness to her. And secretly, he hoped to win her loving affections, which she so graciously bestowed upon his younger siblings. He inwardly balked at the memory of how Michael and Xenia quarrelled over her when she visited them, and how his own mother would dote on her as if she were family. Christine was always in the sight of his family…or in the unseen sight of her husband, it seemed…

He cast the notion aside, not wanting to concern himself with the thought of the elusive Erik de Maricourt, or how he captivated all with his brilliant genius. His attention remained solely upon the lovely young woman who was merely six years his senior.

"Christine," he began timidly, his eyes turning to the courtyard. "I was wondering if you would care to accompany me next Sunday—we could take my brothers and sister to the lake on a boat ride." He flushed madly at his suggestion. "I remember that you wanted to when spring came, and it has. It would be a perfect chance for you to see the palace from there," he timidly offered.

Christine looked at him, secretly frowning at his suggestion. She was compelled to gently refuse him, but seeing the plea marked within his eyes dispelled all notions of rejecting him. She could not deny him this one request, even if her mind ruled against it.

"I would be happy to," she murmured with true sincerity.

Nicholas' eyes brightened at her acceptance. He nodded vigorously, taking her hand in a grateful gesture. "Then we shall next Sunday. And I have no doubt that my mother will somehow manage to persuade my father into coming, as well," he muttered ruefully.

She gently laughed at his caustic remark, enjoying the childlike antics she had disregarded since attending the _conservatoire_. The young tsarevich, with his roguish grin, reminded her of—she dismissed the thought, not reminding herself of times best left undisturbed as they mouldered, cold and undesired in the past.

The choice had been made; however, her promise to the darkness that night left only unspoken dismay within her vow. And yet, she could not lament over her decision, not when she came so damnably close to reaching him. That brief, almost fleeting moment of longing within his golden eyes only proved that he held some semblance of feeling, his inhuman heart almost human the moment his eyes beseeched hers with the plight of a child, long forsaken by his own mother. She found no anger, no unrivalled hatred within them, only the unvoiced plea of acceptance as he caressed her face with his tentative touch.

The memory of his gloved fingers graced against the hollows of her mind. Erik wanted her for far more than a false bride; the desire within his unmoving gaze confirmed it. And she knew that she could not deny him of it. He had only to ask and she would relinquish _everything_ to him, and thus shatter her last remaining barrier against him.

There would be no one to save her from him then, the dark passion that consumed her every breath, every ill-fated word, would eventually persuade her into sharing his dark illusions of desire. She had already forfeited her dreams to remain by his side and live in his abysmal world of eternal night, as she shamelessly revelled in her own damnation, the fleeting yet blissful pull of his seductive song lulling her to him. Christine could not deny him her soul as he could no longer reject it. And in this twisted act of fate they were one.

The former prima donna turned her attention to Nicholas then, smiling without regret at her secret revelation. The future tsar returned her smile, his blue avid in the anticipation of somehow pleasing her. "Christine, perhaps this may seem forward of me, but I must comment upon your beauty. I have never seen anyone as lovely as you, not even the Lady Suculov could ever dare compare to you."

He looked at her, his slight blush deepening. "You have also been very kind to my family. I wish to thank you for staying with us." He turned away from her, his expressive face downcast. "It is a pity that it cannot be forever," he softly murmured between them.

Christine blanched at his words, thoroughly disheartened by his declaration. "Your grace—Nicholas, I—" she stopped, her voice failing as the sight of another manifested before her. She slightly paled as eyes, the colour of unsavoury amber, regarded her quietly, his broken mask harbouring no expression upon its shattered surface.

Nicholas frowned, not understanding her abrupt vow of silence until turning to see the object of her sudden disquiet. The tsarevich stared at the cloaked figure, his lingering gaze dispassionate. He nodded curtly, purposely disregarding the observant masked man as he turned to Christine once more. "I believe I must leave your company now, _madam_," he muttered solemnly, his arctic gaze not betraying the gravity within his voice. "I look forward to our venture next Sunday," he said, bowing to her as he took his leave, his composure unbroken as he left the silent couple.

A dismal silence fell between them as Christine averted her eyes from Erik's prominent stare, her face troubled. His jealousy had been apparent when the Lord Drazlovsky made his untimely advances on the terrace. Would the young tsarevich also fall victim to Erik's deadly ire as it consumed his burning rage to possess her?

Her thoughts, however, remained unvoiced in the absurd silence as Erik stood before her, cold and remote, his golden eyes lingering upon her lovely face. A twisted smile maligned his hidden lips, the sweet dejection of his pale bride furthering his interest. Christine's fear of his anger was obvious; she feared for the life of the tsarevich who dared to compliment her.

Erik mentally chided Christine for her acute simplicity. The boy was safe from his wrath, as the ingenious adolescent had been wholly ignorant of his idle declarations of love and beauty. His praise, though worthy of Christine, was not, in any way, a viable threat. And as such, the boy would live, at least for the present time.

"Do not fear for the boy, my dear," he gently whispered, offering her a gloved hand. "He is quite safe from me, I assure you." His hand beckoned to her once more. "Come, I have something to show you."

Christine looked at him, her eyes revealing uncertainty as she reluctantly accepted his hand, following him as he descended the grand terrace, his perfect gait leading them into the illustrious gardens below…

…

Erik led Christine through a labyrinthine world of colour, for each flower and delicate petal was replete with vibrant splendour, which remained solely for her pleasure and her pleasure alone.

He looked at her, noticing her hesitation as he guided her down the winding path; the brief, transitory lingering upon distant thoughts compelled him to say her name, his hand tightening around hers. The strident, yet gentle, call of his voice urged Christine to follow him through the maze of silent roses.

They walked in silence, their hands united in the dark, symbolic union of two souls joining, each fated to the other as the world collapsed and fell, broken in a thousand shards of unmarked sorrow, around them. Christine smiled at Erik then, her small gesture, though insignificant, almost made him pause as he stared at her, his mask a perfect illustration of bemusement.

But in spite of his mild interest, he continued, leading her to the edge of the grounds. Christine looked at him, her face contorting into childlike curiosity. "Erik, why—" she stopped, seeing a skein of ebony within his hands.

A dark brow rose in question, and he moved to answer the question within her eyes. "Your eyes are of no further use from this moment, Christine." His hands gathered the black scarf tightly, the gloved skeletal digits moving to obscure her vision. He saw the momentary fright within her lovely face, but ignored it. "Allow me to guide you through the darkness, Christine." The mask moved against her, its porcelain cheek gracing against hers, as he whispered, "Trust me, as you once did. Trust in your Erik now."

Christine felt a change in him, seeing the turbulent plight within his eyes; the yellow, hollow depths pleading for her to take this leap of faith and trust in him. She felt reborn then, as if she were once again an innocent child, and he, her beloved Angel of Music. She nodded, accepting her fate as the dismal shroud blinded her, brutally forcing her to believe in him.

And like an obedient child she followed him blindly through the gardens, his hand never leaving hers as he moved forward, leading her away from the boundaries of the gardens and into the wilderness.

Erik vaguely noticed the hesitation marked within each faulty step as Christine grasped his hand, her tiny nails burying themselves into the coarse leather of his glove. He smiled, crookedly, and watched the torrent of expressions overcome her fragile face. She had walked blindly into this misshapen realm of grandeur, moving forward beyond the distorted beauty of an unseen world. She looked lovely in the shadows, an alluring addition to the darkened empire that seemed to become its enigmatic master.

He looked at her face then, his yellow eyes considering her as he led her further, deeper into the darkest reaches of the forest. Christine stumbled behind him, her blinded eyes ignorant to all else that surrounded her. An emotion akin to doubt tainted her flawless features as her staggered breath moved silently between them.

But in spite of this new oscillation of dread, Erik discounted it, pressing forward, subtly pulling her closer to him as he guided her through the illusory fantasy of another's masterful creation. His purpose, though vaguely hidden within his own demented mind, would come to light when the dark veil of ignorance fell away from her eyes. She would _know_ then…

The darkness that concealed all light of the sun encircled them, the shadows and natural shade of the trees bending it, altering the fading rays through a curved refraction of shape. Erik glanced at the small alcove of trees, and then turned to Christine. He heard her slight intake of breath as he untied the scarf.

"Erik…" she gently whispered as the skein of ebony silk fell away from her eyes, which remained closed even after he restored her sight.

"Open your eyes, Christine," Erik muttered firmly, commandingly, his hands tightly grasping her shoulders.

A surge of emotion filled her, the sight before her encouraging such wonder, such awe-inspiring intrigue that tears brimmed within her eyes, clouding them with a thin veil of pain. She turned to Erik, the unfettered emotion of confusion punctuating her unspoken question.

"Why?" her pale lips echoed softly.

Erik returned her bewildered stare with indifference. "You were denied this once, were you not?" he idly questioned. "Did you not wish to enter such a world as a child?"

Christine flushed at his words, her eyes remaining upon him. "I did," she admitted, sheepishly. "But that was so long ago. I had almost forgotten my desire to." A slight frown replaced her smile. "Besides, there are no children here—only us." She stared at him, the azure depths of her eyes critical, suspicious.

"That is true." He moved closer, his hands caressing the gentle fabric of her emerald dress. The harsh porcelain of his mask descended then, almost a fraction of an inch between them, before it collided gently against her forehead. He heard her timid breath still, her gentle gaze questioning. "It _is_ only us, Christine," he whispered deftly against her ear. "No one, not even your dreaded childhood monsters, linger here." His enigmatic stare dared her to contradict him, in spite of the hidden truth behind his mask.

Her smile returned, and she nodded. "I was such a fool to believe in them then, Erik," she murmured emphatically. "I realize, now, that my beliefs in such things are nothing more than false impressions, brought on by my childhood fears." A pale, trembling hand ascended, falling timorously against a false porcelain cheek. "I am only sorry that it has taken me so long to see it…" she whispered sadly, her downcast expression falling to the ground between them.

A gloved finger tilted her chin, compelling her to face its master. His eyes stared at from beyond the almond slits, the harsh yellow gleam within his meaningful gaze seducing her. "Then you no longer believe in monsters that lurk in the shadows of your nightmares, or even in the knights who fell them in the name of honour and glory?" he idly remarked, though his eyes spoke differently, questionably: _Do you no longer see me as such, Christine?_

Christine ignored his comment as she heeded the unvoiced plight within his eyes. She glanced at his hand upon her shoulder, the coarse leather of the glove straining with the last remaining fragment of his disbelief. A deep-rooted sense of compassion consumed her as all thoughts and notions of pity were abruptly cast aside. She would be honest with him, and regard his face as any other.

"Men make themselves into monsters," she responded diffidently. "We are compelled to believe in the words of storytellers, instead of seeing the actual truth before us. The world is persuaded to indulge in the lies and fallacies of things that do not exist."

Her fingers bravely moved to lie against his arm, caressing the velvety surface. She noticed the slight show of weakness when he closed his eyes, concealing the burning orbs within the hollow depths of the mask. "I do not wish to believe in that world, Erik—not anymore," she whispered confidently, her meaningful gaze pleading for him to believe her. "I want to remain in this world, with you." Her head inclined in visible shame, like a child stricken by remorse for its foolishness. "I no longer fear the darkness, or the night shadows that fill my room. You have made me see beyond them…"

A deep and impenetrable silence shifted between them, stilling their voices as each looked upon the other. Christine watched, helplessly entranced by the hypnotic lull of Erik, his eyes ever questioning with their silent incredulity. She felt as if she was staring at the face of an angel, marked solely by the strange, godlike beauty that became him, his sanctified glory hidden behind a mask of profane righteousness.

She felt a hand cover hers, imprisoning it. Her breath emitted a slight shudder, feeling a thousand unknown, unholy sensations throughout. "Christine…" She heard him say, as his hand lay gently against hers.

And just as abruptly he released her, drawing away from her stilled visage. Christine looked at him gravely, her eyes reflecting the unmarked confusion of child. The bittersweet longing he allegedly saw almost pained him. Offence within his callous gesture seemed to spur only irreproachable hurt, both like and unlike the injuries caused by her childish ignorance. She could never realize the pain she had unwittingly wrought upon him during those hours after finding her on the Opéra's roof with that boy…

But the memory of it did not embitter him as it once had. The idle throws of fear and anger fell away, leaving only hollow remnants of it. He could no longer condemn the young de Chagny and his foolish declarations of love, just as he could not condemn Christine for deserting him.

And yet, she had not. For by returning to him, she had ultimately sacrificed whatever freedom and happiness she would have had with her young vicomte. The rage and bitter hatred for the attempt to end his life had ceased the moment she cried for his poor, unfortunate fate, her penitent tears washing away all sins and stripping away the masks of deceit, their faces laid bare to each other before the judgmental eyes of a fathomless god.

"Christine," he said at last, "you must take advantage of your time here." His eyes gleamed within the light of the golden sun. "The shadows and darkness will not be restrained for ever. Make use of your time, as little as it may be."

A small, timid smile replaced the despondency found within her willowy features. Christine quietly nodded, looking away as the gradual strains of a maidenly timidity entreated a slight flush from her. "Thank you, Erik," she murmured faintly, and then turned away from him, lest she disgrace herself in his presence further.

Erik noticed Christine's unease; the rise of colour on her pale cheeks only furthered his belief of the awkward tension between them. A twisted smirk lay under the mask. Christine's feelings, though beautifully concealed under a guise of refined modesty, could not withhold the ill-present truth: she both revelled and faltered when by his side.

He had noticed it before, the times when she flushed upon seeing him, her graceful demeanour of trying to appease him by playing the perfect wife, along with the hidden glances out of the corner of her eye. All, he had noticed, yet had regarded it as nothing more than a child's idle curiosity, a mere intrigue brought on by the desire to prolong this unending game in the court.

But as he posed this thought and its true validity, he rejected it. For no longer could he assume that Christine's actions—most of which he would never understand—were any less noble than his own, the dignity he emitted nothing more than that of a beautifully constructed image, a pleasant fiction for both to relive as each uneventful day in the tsar's court passed.

Christine's ability to deceive had gone beyond all of his expectations. She surpassed that of the finest stage actresses at the Parisian Opéra, even going beyond that of one of the greatest pretenders in history. A swell of pride overrode any dismay he had for her lies—for they almost matched his own—as he watched her through the wood, her slender figure fading in with the trees.

His eyes moved over her, the yellow irises committing her illustrious figure to his eternal memory. She was a vision in green, albeit ivory and Prussian blue attributed more to her Scandinavian features. Nevertheless, she remained an image of flawless perfection.

She was so beautiful, so perfect, he reflected quietly. And so very unlike his mother. The faded likeness his mind conjured was a dull comparison to his bride. True, that his mother exceeded the fair amount of country beauties in their province, with her golden hair and emerald eyes. Even her enchanting laugh could inspire poets to write sonnets filled with crazed adorations of love and beauty.

And she had many, he bitterly thought. The times of hiding away when her alleged suitor came to call gnawed at his mind. The many pleas and deceitful tactics she would use to drive him away from their home had inevitably spurred his ability to lie. Pity, such a child, both unloved and unwanted, only learned what it was to deceive from his mother. His ability to hate, however, came later…

He set the thought aside, his eyes centring on Christine. She even smiled when she walked; her naïveté and innocent approach toward everything almost baffled him. She was an enigma, a wondrous puzzle that tempted him to solve. And whenever she looked upon him, her smile would never falter, never fade as she considered him with the tenderness of a trusting child. He could almost forget what it was to hate, the change within inevitably because of her.

_Oh, Christine_, he cried within his mind.

"Erik?" Christine gently called to him, her delicate voice strangely reverberated the answer to his unending thoughts. She gave him a considerate smile, her eyes remaining on the dark frame of his cloak, as if unworthy to look upon him. She silently berated herself for her foolishness and compelled herself to look at him.

Her words stilled within her throat as his eyes beseeched hers, the unending question within their golden depths penetrating, burning with awareness. She almost turned away from him, ready to forego her offer. But the inner voice within her mind railed against her, scolding her for such cowardice. She would never be offered another chance with him such as this. She would _have_ to ask him, no matter the outcome. His acceptance of rejection would be her fate.

She moved for then, her eyes never leaving his. "Erik," she said again, her tiny hand bravely extending before her. "Would you care to accompany me?" She flushed madly at her words. "I fear that my father's warnings still may come to pass…"

Erik remained silent, staring at her offered hand. She was asking him to join her—_willingly_? What brilliant madness stirred within her, to make such an ingenious offer? And yet, the darker, more rational part of him refused to reject her. He would not refuse something so freely given.

"_La Belle Dame Sans Merci_," he muttered as he stared at her in disbelief. For she _was_ indeed a beautiful woman who left her admirers cold and palely loitering, long after their demise. The horrifying image of the _skogsfru_ was a dull comparison to the true vision of this glorified deceit. It was an art, though redefined and recreated throughout history—through trial and beautiful error—had inevitably led up to this eminent moment: personified innocence captured within a fatal image of humility. And Christine mastered it.

He quietly nodded, taking her hand in his and accepting whatever fate came of it. She demurred under his earth-shattering stare as he guided her through the darkness, their silhouetted figures fading into those of the twisting trees.

…

**Author's Note: So terribly sorry this took a long time to post. Sadly, when I am in college I usually refrain from working on my stories. Again, my apologies for taking months, but I have the obligation of school and the eighteen hours that goes with it. And believe me, it has been a nightmare this semester. I have almost reconsidered switching my major. It has been that bad. **

**Well, anyway, I hope everyone likes this new chapter. I admit that there are grammatical errors strewn about here to there, but I was too tired to look over this a second time. Oh, well. **

**However, I must point out to those who are wondering about the French Erik speaks at the end. It means the beautiful lady without mercy, a poem by John Keats. Also, this fair maiden whom the Romantic poet draws within alluring metaphors and sensual connotation is a representation of the _Skosgfru_, which Christine mentioned in the last chapter. And the child who once feared such damnably seductive becomes one; and Erik, poor soul that he is almost falls for her—almost. **

**And also, I dare to confess that we getting closer to the end! I promise it is not too far away. I have my notes. All I need do is to just write it out.**

**Oh, and also I plan to post another _Phantom_ one-shot. And I will admit that it _is_ different from what I have posted in the past. Indeed, I believe it to be one of my better works. As it is also one that I have hesitated to put on here, for fear of someone complaining about the morbidity and level of shock it may cause. But I am brave enough now, and it is so needs to be posted, seeing that I have had it on my hard drive for over a year now. I do hope everyone likes an idle recollection, especially one when it concerns the Red Death. **

**On a final note, people have asked me about my other stories and whether or not I will continue them. The answer is maybe. I have no plans at present to work on my _Labyrinth_ story, though I very much want to continue it in the future. Sadly, my attention has been heavily drawn on school, this story, and also another one I plan to post. Maybe in the distant future I will return to those hiatus works of mine and continue them. Hopefully, that is! **

**Thanks again, everyone, for all the wonderful reviews!**


	17. Chapter Sixteen: A Murderer No More

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Sixteen.

The memory of the young tsarevich's outing had been far more than a simple evening planned around a few children. The empress, along with her husband—who had reluctantly disregarded state delegations between he and the Prussian ambassador—also attended. The children, most especially Xenia, were overjoyed to see their father join them as her tiny arms encircled Alexander's neck with unveiled admiration.

Christine had watched the family, faintly smiling as the children fought over who would take the oar of the tiny craft next. It was inconceivable to consider the leaders of one of the most powerful countries in the world to behave in such a normal and almost pedestrian manner. For they had acted like anyone else who would take their children on a boat ride, not noticing the rest of the world as the afternoon faded blissfully into the dimming twilight.

A gentle sigh escaped her as she stared at the pristine façade of the lake, its delicate surface mirroring one in the distant waters of a forgotten time. The sunkissed golden hues of its watery surface, however, differed greatly from the unfathomable darkness of the lake in her mind as its depths were translucent, not obscured by the darkness that shielded it from the prying eyes of the sun.

But unlike the chilled apathy emitted from such a dismal sight, she could not deny that she missed its cold, blackened depths of midnight. The insecurity of seeking the unknown had often spurred her to the lake's bitter shore, as she stared beyond it, the silent resilience of its gentle waves stirring something deep and unknown within her.

She felt intrigued by it, tantalized by its resolute silence as its black waters ebbed against the mottled sand. The security found within the soft, tender waves of the palace lake greatly differed from the exhilaration and fear of the Opéra's lake, five cellars below its illustrious stage. Even the creature—Erik's strange siren—was sadly vacant from the pastoral beauty before her.

A frown beset her pale visage, the thoughts of missing stagehands and ballerinas who were often found on the lake's shore, as the perplexity of many could supposedly drown in such an arcane and unexplained manner baffled those who came upon the bodies, the bloated expressions of each revealing only utter fear and terror of something that was only reflected within their unseeing eyes. Even the Comte de Chagny had met a similar end as his blind search led him to the Opera's cellars.

The comte's attempt to find his wayward brother had been in vain; however, as the gloom of the lake and what lay beneath it, claimed another victim in its fathomless depths. And oddly, his body, which was once dignified and apprised for its cold alacrity, was found to be severely altered from its once-beatified state, the paleness of the corpse and strange markings around the neck and arms only brought forth more confusion as to the reason why the comte, who was adept in the art of swimming, could drown so easily.

The details of his death had been omitted from the papers, and also by the mouths of the de Chagny staff who idly gossiped in the halls and unseen corners of the estate. The speculation of the comte's terrible death had left only a dim speculation that perhaps his fate had not been accidental, as the younger de Chagny raged behind closed doors, refusing to subject all to his beliefs. But despite his hopeless attempts to shield his doubts from everyone, Christine had heard them all the same as he muttered about them under his stifled cries of grief.

The identity of the alleged murderer had not been named, however. And she could only believe that perhaps Raoul's loss had brought on such allegations. She shook her head sadly at the knowledge of it as she pitied not only Raoul, but everyone who suffered from the agony of that night.

And yet, she recalled something vaguely and painfully familiar. _A guest_, Erik had once said to her as his waterlogged clothes saturated the fine Persian carpets underneath his towering figure…

"_I beg your pardon for letting you see a face like this! What a state I am in, am I not? It's _the other one's fault_. Why did he ring? Do _I _ask people who pass to tell me the time? He will never ask anyone the time again! It is the siren's fault."_

Those strange words echoed within her mind as the proceedings of that night led to more unimaginable horrors. She had always wondered why he said those things as he drew himself to perform some sort of funeral requiem for the unknown soul who had foolishly traversed into his dark world. And ironically, she then recalled, Philippe de Chagny had also drowned in the lake that night.

Her eyes widened slightly, and her heart raced madly. Could Erik have possibly committed…

No. She would not even consider it. Though he was moved to murder on more than one occasion, she would not dare think of him as being so callous, so rigidly heartless as to commit murder in such a vile manner. She could not, even though her heart cried the wretched truth of it.

Raoul would have been justified in exacting revenge against his adversary. As murder begot murder, he would have enough reason in ending Erik's life as the officials of the Parisian law stood behind him, the trigger pulled remaining unquestioned as the sorrowful heap of rotting flesh collapsed, and the true horror revealed.

She would not sentence Erik to such a fate, even if he had cruelly taken the comte's life that night, for she could sadly defend his actions as well, perhaps even better than Raoul's. The murders committed had been out of defense, if not solely for his survival. She refused to think upon the falling of the chandelier either. Such madness belonged to a soul desperate to live, to survive in a world that had denied him life.

Erik was not that man, not anymore. The desire to murder, which had once illuminated his eyes, was strangely missing as a new emotion, more beautiful and too profound for words embellished his golden stare. She felt an incredible sense of security around him, his gloved hands always giving protection and comfort from the myriad of insecurities that plagued her. Never once did she see the insane and brilliant anger that had once smoldered from within. Erik was her protector now, her guide, and her beloved guardian. In his arms, she felt…safe.

And as such, she would not further this damning notion of pain by condemning him. She would forgive him this as well. Such cruelty was not part of him now, not when he held her as the sun faded into the distant horizon each evening, his soft words gently caressing her with a vague promise of tomorrow.

Christine sighed as she remembered the significant change from within, heavily mirrored by the wondrous tender-taken touch whose hesitance inspired delight, and not fear, as it once had. Erik had considered her uncertainties when he guided her through the palace's grounds, his hand never leaving hers as he led her through a world under the fading trees.

For ever since that strange and paradoxical evening, he would come to her after the tsar released him from his duties with the grave anticipation of seeing her. He would enter their chambers and dismiss any who intervened upon his intent, the sole incentive of seeing her alone only intensifying his desire in finding her.

It was difficult to understand his intentions behind the shrewd kindness he carefully emitted as he sought her out each evening. Perhaps he finally saw the truth of her innocence, just as she saw beyond the cracked obstruction that forever separated them.

Could he ever dare show himself as freely as he once had, she vaguely wondered. Could he find the fear and revulsion he once knew replaced with awe and adoration? In her heart, she knew that she could welcome his face without flinching at its cold and unnatural touch.

His face was like any other man's, the twisted lips holding the same unspoken sentiments that many felt under the enchantment of a love blinded by hate could only express. And deep inside, she knew that his lips could form the same adulations that many often spoke in love.

Her face contorted into a shallow frown. Would she ever hear those words uttered by his divine voice again? Would she ever feel the same, drawing need that he once invoked upon her as his pleas for her to return his love fell away and shattered before him? Dear God, she knew that she could not deny him if he asked her again.

And much like the patron Swedish saint who bore the same name as he, Christine felt the growing intensity of Erik's divine presence overcast her own meager existence.

"Oh, Erik…" she murmured softly, her thoughts fading as the last rays of the golden sun cast intricate beams of light through the translucent windowpanes.

She vaguely smiled as everything fell away from the sacred silence of the palace's ornate chapel. Her thoughts, along with the myriad of confused feelings and emotions, had sustained her in this singular house of worship. Her eyes, though lingering upon the image of a marked saviour, remained stagnant, detached from such hallowed reverence.

So strange, that the beliefs of so many could parallel her own. For despite the beauty and overall architecture of the chapel, she felt the grand cathedrals she revered clearly lacking the wondrous simplicity of the Russian people and their beliefs.

For instead of sitting, they stood as they felt the need to endure a slight instance of pain that their saviour felt so long ago. Their beliefs and utter convictions in a heaven were clearly stated in Russian proverbs, which were passionately uttered as they toiled and laboured every day, patiently waiting for their time on this earth to end. Their beliefs, which were strangely different from her own, seemed to shatter her long-standing faith. God could be found anywhere—not solely in the grand halls of a lavish cathedral…

And in this, she no longer desired to linger in the presence of falsified beauty; the disenchantment of it all had ruined any hope to return to it…

Her daily visit to the chapel had outlasted its usefulness as her mind wandered to the sinful imaginings of a crazed adolescent. Her purpose in coming had been tainted with the desire to think upon something other than her own petty sins. Her light smile twisted in irony. She had confessed nothing, and yet secretly withheld what she truly wished to ask.

She glanced once more to the Christ-like image, its sorrowful expression reflecting the despondency her own soul felt. Would God forgive Erik as she had? She had prayed for him since tearing the mask away the first time, her fervent entreaties to alleviate the pain within his life remaining unanswered. Her pleas seeming to only intensify his agony…

And yet, he seemed so different, not like the man she had abandoned in the cellars that night. His coldness toward the world had slightly lessened as the desire to live became more apparent. It was as if a purpose for his life had been drawn by the stars, carefully mapped by a divine hand.

As she considered this, Christine acknowledged the icon, and silently whispered her gratitude. Her prayer had been answered in the form of an attempted murder, and she, who had begged endlessly for an answer, finally received one: For it was _she_ who was the one fated to end his torment, and perhaps mend the remnants of the broken bonds that forever bound them.

Christine stared at the icon, reflecting its mournful expression. "Forgive him, please…" she faintly whispered as a grieving tear idly fell down her wan cheek.

Her prayer, however, went unanswered by the unending silence of an ever-watchful God whose sacrosanct nature compelled her to remain in its presence as the one she prayed for would eventually find her, and inevitably plunge her into the darkened abyss of his own, personal hell once again, the proverbial words of the Russian faith supporting the everlasting fate ordained by the will of the divine.

And thus she smiled, as she patiently waited for him, secretly knowing that he would find her here. For it was within this hallowed place that their faith clashed, the unending war between them concluding in an unmarked stalemate, the bargain ultimately forcing one to accompany the other, the hatred and bitter strife finally fading, as the deep wounds of the past were temporarily forgotten with the dying rays of the setting sun.

…

"Truly, Erik, you have the mind of a genius. I highly doubt that even the greatest of Russian architects could compare their works to yours."

Erik glanced at the tsar, vaguely hearing the praises made over his work. In truth, he compared the tsar to that of a child whose brilliantly simple excitement masked the cold veneer of a highly-esteemed emperor, for not even a year after his ascension to the throne did he not only begin to return power and influence back to the Russian monarchy, he had also begun to consider quelling the ever-present hostility found amongst the starving peasantry—a legacy created by his own father.

The Russian tsar, Erik silently considered, was far better a leader than those of some of the more refined cultures that lay heavily to the west. It was truly a pity that many could not take notice of the radical changes made, as such knowledge would benefit other countries whose starving populace suffered cruelly in the working classes.

Of course, the fault and ignorance of others was not his concern, nor would it ever be. And thus, he nodded, acknowledging the tsar's exaltations at last. "If it pleases your majesty, I will take my leave."

Alexander set a rough draft of the new church aside, and eyed the masked architect with gentle suspicion. "I suppose you have a prior engagement?" He grinned without remorse. "I am sure your wife is awaiting your return, Erik. You have made quite an effort to leave my study each evening." He considered the ormolu clock on the desk. "And at relatively around the same time, no doubt." He laughed heartily, and then paused, a deep frown replacing his mirth.

"I understand that you wish to leave now. However, I fear that I must ask a small favour from you this evening."

An unseen brow arched in question. "A favour?" Erik asked, the cold porcelain mask remaining expressionless in the presence of the tsar.

Alexander deeply sighed, a faint show of age wearing upon his bearlike features. "I would not ask this of you—or anyone else, for that matter—seeing as I loathe having others present while I conduct some sort of trivial business with delegates and officials of state." He gave Erik a tiring look. "It is a waste of time, and I confess it will be for you as well. However, despite this, I cannot delay this meeting, nor can I circumvent it from happening." A sardonic smile tainted his rough features. "The government shall have its say…one way or another."

Indeed, Erik thought as he nodded in agreement, though his thoughts as to the reasons why Alexander desired his presence lingered elsewhere. "Then I shall stay."

A faint show relief seemed to alleviate the tsar's beleaguered expression, as if revealing a mild sense of unease under the stately façade. He nodded, closing his magnificent blue eyes—which was an unmistakable trait of the Romanovs—and sighed. "Thank you, Erik," the appreciation within his deep voice echoing not only the truth of its sincerity but also the semblance of ease.

Erik said nothing to this as he awaited this unexpected meeting. Alexander had been vague on the details of it, seeing as he merely wished for him to remain in the room in the guise of an observer whose shadowy presence went unnoticed to those at hand. He would be nothing more than a spectator who bore witness to this tedious, yet important, meeting of state business.

A hideous grin twisted under the mask. Alexander's duties were a marvelous parallel to those of the Persian shah, seeing as he actually took matters quite seriously, opposed to his southern ally who found others to aid him in his rule. The young Russian, ironically, handled a large amount of the country's dilemmas on his own…much to the growing dismay of the royal advisors.

Nevertheless, it was also with this growing dismay that gained both praise and bitter spite amongst the people. Crude letters and threats of a resounding nature seemingly graced Alexander's desk every day. The stifled sigh and shaking of his regal head proved only too much that his rule was not being held in high regard, just as his father's had been after the Liberation Movement.

Russia would fall to a group of unknown anarchists if the reform fell through… It was something that would not come to pass, as he had vowed to Erik one afternoon, not during his lifetime, anyway. Three hundred years of war and agonizing strife would not be sacrificed and forgotten so easily—not while the Romanovs were still in power.

And thus, this simple, almost taxing meeting would be held, if only in the vain attempt to end a skirmish between the rebel opposition and Russian guard. The capital had seen too much bloodshed since the days of Peter the Great, as the tainted stains marked the illustrious white marble columns that adorned its streets.

Erik considered this as his employer waited, the avid anticipation stirring within the tsar's dull blue eyes. Alexander held the lifeless façade of a man awaiting his death, the heavy, deathlike tolls of the coming execution stripping the remainder of his meager life, and leaving only a hollow shell of his former dignity.

So graceless, so utterly unrefined was he now as he stared beyond the doors and what would eventually lay behind them. He seemed…concerned, almost worried in some measure. Though the younger man never voiced such vexing concerns, Erik noticed the tension within Alexander's expression, his restless demeanour unveiling the horrid truth of his profound worry.

He was almost moved to voice his observations when a steady knock halted him.

"Your highness," a refined voice echoed in perfect French, "_Monsieur _Sokólov has arrived."

A gentle sigh escaped Alexander, and he silently nodded. "Show him in, Ivan."

The grand doors to Alexander's study steadily opened, revealing the docile figure of the Court of Justice's newly appointed member. Alexander acknowledged the silent man, and gestured for him to have a seat.

The statesman reflected the acknowledgement and seated himself before the tsar as he silently waited for his sovereign to speak.

"I see that matters of state have broached this meeting," Alexander said, his tone formal, well-clipped in the manner of one of his status. "Perhaps you will wish to begin with the concern the court has issued in controlling the threat of more terrorist acts upon the capital and its surrounding districts."

Vásya Sokólov nodded. "Very well, your majesty," he began, his eyes slightly glancing at the mysterious figure in the corner, but then returned to the tsar; the masked anomaly no longer a concern to him. "As _you_ are already aware many of the terrorists found in Moscow and the capital have yet to be tried for their crimes. We have yet to confirm the number of those involved in the attacks from last winter.

"The court itself is waiting for the correct procedure in questioning them. As of now, many are being held until the court proceeds with its investigations. Until then, we are waiting for _you_ to come to decision on what shall be done. Surely I can report back with _something_."

Alexander frowned heavily, irritated by the callous words of the statesman. "I believe that the court is quite aware of my intentions," he returned coldly. "Each one shall be tried and punished as seen fit by court of law. No one shall be exonerated by adhering to such radical and tyrannical beliefs, as all will be punished for their crimes against the law and Russia itself."

"Indeed," the statesman rejoined; his dark eyes devoid of humour as he withdrew from his seat and moved to the window. "Well, then perhaps the country shall rest peacefully tonight once I inform everyone that our beloved emperor will not tolerate those who wish to change the old laws." His obsidian glare moved once more to the tsar. "For it seems that one tyrant can surely be replaced with another far worse…"

Alexander rose from his chair. "And what do you mean by that?" His austere face revealed portentous anger as he questioned the statesman.

"Apparently, you are not so much as a fool as your father was. I commend you, _your_ _highness_." He bowed in mock respect, slightly noticing as the tsar blanched at his words.

"How dare you speak in such a traitorous manner—"

"How dare _I_?" Vásya questioned as he turned away from the window. "You are in no position to question me or anyone else," he muttered, his words a cold reprimand. "Your power does not hold sway over everyone. As your false convictions in believing yourself closer to God, than even the lowliest slave is most unwise, especially since tsars and nobles are expendable in this day and age. You are no more important than the next poor Russian bastard who litters the dirty streets. And nor will you _ever_ hope to hold a place in the grand history of your predecessors, seeing as you shame them."

Alexander glared, unmoved by Sokólov's words. "You will be shot for this treason."

Vásya grinned. "Truly? Then I do hope that my death will at least spur those true to Russia to revolt against you and the entire Romanov dynasty." He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. "You do realize that you will follow your father's failure, just as you die in the same way as he."

"Quite," Alexander returned with remote indignation, the cool, unrestrained hatred for this man and the ideas he represented seething within him. If only he had a pistol at hand…

And yet, despite his lack thereof, the tsar continued. "However, as I favour history, I have no intention of repeating it. The attempts of those foolish enough to lay one hand against me or my family will be the first to be executed." His cold blue eyes heartily expressed his meaning. "Do no trouble me with your idle threats; you will find me not one to tolerate such mindless idiocy."

"Idiocy?" A dark, condescending brow rose in anger. "You believe that a starving people who resulted to defend themselves against tyranny border their beliefs upon idiocy? Are you so blind to the world around you? Can you not see the destruction of what you and those before you have done? The streets are lined with corpses, decaying and rotting as you turn away in ignorance. Your people cry out to you, and you do nothing to ease the sorrow in which they bear. Can you not see that?"

Alexander's stare was ice. "The fault of which is to blame from the actions of both its people and also the intentions—however noble they were in theory of my father—are made by human error. And whereas I am trying to restore order, your radical notions of change attempt to destroy it. You cannot place blame upon me fully, nor can you attest to some reckless belief of amending things that cannot be undone.

"Would you dare to hope that Russia would be better if it fell to the hands of those who wish to eradicate it?" Alexander shook his head in brutal defiance. "Your ideas will poison your mind and fester whatever loyalty you have to the country you seek to save."

"Liar!" Vásya cried, refraining from the dignified language of the French and cursing in his native Russian. "Is _that_ what you believe, that the movement has only caused strife and not progress? You are as much a fool as my _own_ father was, and I will be damned if I allow you to spread any more pain to those who believe in your lies." His hand moved to the inner rim of his coat. "I believe that delegations and matters of state have unfortunately drawn to a close," he muttered as his slender hand revealed a pistol. Eyes of the darkest obsidian moved over the tsar, the lack of remorse unveiled, unhidden as the gun raised into position.

The statesman remained impassive to the tsar's paling expression. "I may die today, but the _Narodnaya Volya_—the _People's Will_—will survive and endure all tyranny against Russia. This day, your reign has come to an end," he declared, the hammer of the gun cocking back to fire.

"How noble of you."

Vásya turned, the slight, subtle surprise of the new voice causing him to falter as the gun idly shifted to the sound's origin. "And who the devil are you?"—A sable brow rose in question.—"Some sort of observer?" A dark chuckle fell away into the stifled silence. "I did not realize that another masquerade was to be held. Indeed, I cannot even fathom that etiquette called for one before the stroke of nine."

He shook his head and glanced at Alexander. "Your rule has changed quite a few things. I am sure the ladies of the household were appeased by this brilliant notion, as your father would most likely be rolling his grave over such uncouth behaviour.

"Even more, I am rather surprised to even admit how the kingdom has fallen into such a state—allowing cowards to hide behind masks in your most _revered_ presence," he coolly mocked as he turned the pistol on the tsar. "It is quite…unbecoming of you." He smirked. "Such a pity, too."

Alexander watched in avid horror as he stared down the barrel of a gun, its obsidian casing playing a solemn dirge of apathy as the bullet within promised only sweet annihilation. Death stood before him not as a shrouded figure that foretold his demise but as a young man, both ignorant and naïve to a world that would forever fall and collapse around oppression and the endless destruction of dreams.

He accepted his end without regret.

And as he waited for his inevitable end, the heavy strains of his impending doom swayed against the tides of Fate, for as the young Sokólov moved to pull the trigger a shadow from the corner shifted forward; its fluidity in removing the chilling call of death arched itself with the graceful demeanour of a skilled god.

Alexander, though betrayed by his own dark imaginings, watched in perverse fascination as Erik amputated the gun from the young man's hand, forever severing it from the crazed radical.

Sokólov cried out in irreproachable anger as he collided against his opponent, his broken hand reaching helplessly for the discarded weapon, but halted his attempt as he was shoved aside like a broken doll. His dark eyes conveyed only fury as he fell forward, his knees crashing heavily against the dark wood floor.

A faint sigh of relief escaped Alexander as he tried to speak, but held his tongue to see a strange and arcane instrument sway in Erik's hand. The frail, string-like wire suspended itself in midair, before delicately lacing itself around Sokólov's throat, the thin, almost skeleton-like digits moving gracefully, twisting the fine wire tighter and tighter as the young man ceaselessly gasped for air.

Alexander's heart stilled within his chest when he watched the young man's horrified expression pale, as it turned to a dull shade of grey. His hands thrashed madly, the failed attempt to remove the condemning wire forcing him to submit; his pained expression had, at last, admitted defeat. A choked sob escaped him—his last—as a clear, lucid crack echoed within the room. Sokólov fell forward then, never to rise again.

The silence that followed hung like a dismal pall as the body lay slovenly against the cold floor. Alexander turned away in disbelief, his mind a mantra of shattered thoughts and ruined disbeliefs. Dear God, he had just witnessed death in its highest form—its dreaded appearance a dark personification of the man before him.

Erik's yellow eyes haunted his mind even now as he faintly recalled everything; the flagrant movements and silent perfection of the architect's skill shown within the delicate brutality of his art. His hands instilled death as the bloodied strains and weakened cries of mercy tainted them.

How many times had his hands executed this act before? And how many people—both guilty and innocent—fell to such a beautifully cruel wrath of this man? Alexander had no answer as he considered the body and its flaccid state. He quietly breathed a word of prayer and then glanced at the man who stood before him.

The golden eyes which gleamed like broken shards of hellfire seethed beyond the hollow slits of the broken mask. The dark cloak that obscured the hidden face had been pulled away in the struggle, revealing a slight skeletal formation which was not shielded by its dark confines. Alexander almost drew back in horror at the sight of it, for never before had he seen Erik without the hooded obscurity.

Nevertheless, the tsar composed himself. "I will see to the body, Erik," he said flatly, his eyes fixed upon his subject. "I would ask that you not mention this to anyone once you leave this room."

Erik inclined his head.

"Very well then," Alexander conceded, silently dismissing him.

Once more Erik dully nodded, turning away without a word and leaving the tsar to his tattered ruminations.

Alexander watched Erik take his leave, and his eyes fell upon the body, its lifeless gaze glazed over with hollow fear as its mouth lay agape in unspoken terror. The body, though insensible to the world around it, filled the space of life and death, bringing closer the ever-divergent gap between both.

The tsar frowned, his broken mind wondering, considering as the guilt and shock of it all settled in. He wanted to question the gods and ask why. Why now after everything else had happened? Why the feelings of uncertainty and brilliant confusion of everything have to fall upon him? Why _this_…

He glanced at the corpse once more, and then moved his hollow gaze toward the door, as he considered one final thing: W_ho_—or rather, _what_—had he allowed into his household…

…

The quest to find his errant bride seemed nothing more than a mere obligation, and yet so much more. Erik found himself amidst the grand halls of the eastern corridor; their hallowed opulence combined with the Russian age-old integrity spurred his pursuit as he distanced himself from the tsar's disbelieving face.

A mild, if not brutal sense of shock pervaded Alexander's expression to the point of fear as he had watched one of his most esteemed guests strangle a man before him, the absence of remorse, or even acknowledgment of it, had only added to the unwanted loss of control. And it was this loss of control that suddenly compelled the new leader to not only consider the possibility of his life being imperiled, but to learn not to place trust in others so easily.

Erik briefly smiled. It was a pity that Alexander had to learn so in such an unfortunate manner. Truly, he had no intention of making the tsar his pupil in the art of murder. But where he the teacher and his employer the avid student, how he could deny him the chance to learn, to live beyond the final hours of one's passing fate and overcome what could be changed.

The tsar was alive and nothing else mattered.

Nothing else except…

"Christine," he uttered her name as he descended down the sacred halls that led to the chapel and up the spiral stair which ascended into heaven. His golden eyes adjusted to the dying fragments of sunlight as his gaze moved to the image before him.

His bride was bathed in the last, unadulterated rays of light, her porcelain skin radiating a lucid shade of pale crimson. She was the embodiment of perfection, a tangible vision of divinity, and he beheld her all the more.

Words, almost imperceptible by the dominating silence, echoed softly, reaching the shadows and growing darkness that surrounded her. The prayers marked by her docile voice penetrated all, and he heard each timid syllable in its truest sincerity.

She prayed, thanking whatever god for his kindness of giving her life. She prayed for others as well; her surrogate mother and the few friends she had acquired at the Opéra were among the names to be remembered. She had even prayed for the lives lost during tragedies long since past by the idle strands of time.

But most surprising of all, he quietly noted, was the utterance of _his_ name. How could his Christine mention him to her god? How could she _ever_ dare blatantly allude to a demon's name with the fervent ambition of having one superior to her grant whatever trifle she desired? How _could_ she?

He stared at her in bemused fascination, as she whispered something else, something so soft that it was inaudible, even to his heightened sense of hearing. He could not even decipher the tacit movement of her lips as she prayed for one final appeal.

Erik looked away from her, his cold eyes cast to the marble tiles. The unknown entreaty still lingered within his mind, and he questioned the validity of his curiosity. Would his bride ever truly consider whispering his name to one so uncaring, so damnably inconsiderate, and yet have the hope to believe that her prayer would be answered?

He almost laughed at her brilliant naïveté, but stifled the notion of being so cruel—for she had at least thought of him, after all. His Christine had thought to make mention of her poor, misshapen husband to the one who molded his likeness with a remorseless hand.

He mentally berated her wondrous consideration of him. For it was time, he realized, that he intruded upon her acclimations of self-piety, lest she make a fool of herself further.

"Do you always utter half-spoken convictions to those who wish to remain silent?"

Christine turned to the sound of her angel's voice, vaguely noticing the question within his eyes. "Erik," she murmured quietly, and then smiled. "You found me."

He moved forward, his powerful gait veiling the brief satisfaction of her childlike words. "Could I dare find you anywhere else, my dear?" he asked cynically, standing rigidly before her. "I have only to wonder why you spend your time harkening to those who keep their vow of silence. Why do you linger here, when no one answers you?"

The former prima donna's smile remained, and she shook her head, the errant, unbound curls falling against her smiling face. "Why do I linger here?" she questioned, her eyes brightening as she answered him. "I linger here because I wish to be closer to my God."

Erik's masked face remained in its impassive expression, though the slight rigidity found within his still frame betrayed his unmoved state. He looked at her, the defining yellow of his eyes descending, ever questioning their silent intent. "The closer you are to your god, the farther you are from me," he said at last, offering her a gloved hand. "But come; let us leave this place, for I am sure that your time here has well appeased those you confide in."

"Erik." Christine frowned at his words, but accepted his offered hand as he pulled her away from floor to stand against him. She breathed against him, and felt the coldness of his corpselike form smooth away the faint, almost invisible lines of her frown. It was almost comforting, and yet so utterly unnerving.

"Christine." She heard him whisper her name, his leathery fingers slightly moving against her right temple. She moved, unwillingly, allowing him to further his ministrations. The thin fingers of her beloved teacher complied, and moved ever so gracefully across her ivory skin.

And just as his touch had been initiated between them it abruptly stopped, forcing Christine to cruelly awaken from her timeless reverie. She looked away from him then, inwardly ashamed of her actions.

"Christine." His voice gently acknowledged.

She did not answer him; however, as she refused to look at him in spite of her own wounded dignity. Only when she felt the icy touch of his calloused glove did she realize that she had not wholly been discarded as he forced her to look at the truth within his eyes.

"Christine," he said again, this time more forcefully. His gloved hands remained as they were, holding solemnly against her shoulders. "Look at me," he ordered firmly, and continued when she complied. "Why did you turn away from me?" he questioned. "Why do you _always_ turn?"

Hearing his words, she bent her head in shame. "I do not know," she whispered brokenly, quelling the inevitable onslaught of tears which seemed to blind to her.

Erik's hands moved of their accord as they inexorably pulled her forward, closer. He glanced down at her, vaguely noticing the tears that refused to fall. "I know why, Christine," he whispered against her bound hair. "I _know_ why you turn from me." His mask bespoke the revelation of his words, and Christine knew, as he did, that her shame was derived from something that both would not dare recognize.

And thus, Erik's words of understanding drifted into the fading strands of sunlight, inevitably forsaking whatever chance of closure to the past and mending the still-bleeding wounds that refused to heal. His hands remained upon her shoulders and his head tilted forward a fraction, the porcelain mask barely a breadth above her delicate forehead. He heard the slight shudder she emitted and noticed the remnants of a broken smile.

Christine looked at him then, and their gazes locked as the world died around them. She considered him, the question within her timid stare burning, almost aching with the profound knowledge of what had transcended between them.

And she knew; that it was within this fatal moment, their fates would forever be intertwined as his hand encircled hers, the skeletal fingers consecrating their unspoken union for eternity. And somehow, despite the harrowing cries of her remaining sanity, she accepted his offer, and all that it entailed.

Erik glanced at Christine and nodded, seeing his consent reflected within her eyes. She had agreed then, his mind duly affirmed, and his decayed lips under the mask twisted into a grotesque smile.

How beautiful she appeared to him now, the lovely, unhesitant smile she freely gave only confirmed his growing suspicions: his bride—his beautifully, enchanting, _living_ bride—had somehow revoked her former hatred of him and replaced it with something unknown, something so damnably unattainable that he himself would not dare admit—no matter how much he longed to.

Some things, he realized, could not broached by the simplicity of meaningless words. The complications of their current roles as husband and wife only reinforced his supposition. And nothing could sway him from that unalterable belief. Except…

Christine's smile only strengthened during the prolonged silence. The lovely, timorous expression was a beautiful contrast to the tears she had shed for him. And where each was pure in its sincerity, he found a slight promise of what was to come.

His fingers tightened around her delicate hand then, silently beckoning her to follow as he led her away, away from the condemning eyes of the world and silent edifice of stone.

And she, without words, or even slight provocation of his strange mannerisms, obeyed, following him blindly as they descended down the spiral stairs and into the stygian depths of twilight.

…

**Author's Note: First of all, I apologise, again, for any errors. I looked over this chapter some time ago, and barely glanced through it on this last revision. I just wanted to get this chapter out today, as Padmé knows me all too well in my posting rituals! For those who do not, I posted this chapter on the anniversary of its publication, as I have done every year on New Year's Eve. A little odd, I realise. But I enjoy it, nonetheless!**

**Anyway, I am sure that some of you will begin to question where this story is headed. As I must make, by my own discretion, that attempts _were_ made on Alexander's life. The assassination of his father did little to quell the growing hostility that the Russian people had at this time. Most saw Alexander to be nothing more than a shadow of his father, though he was quite the opposite in his rule. History confirms, however, that he, unlike his father, was well received among the Russian people. Had he lived beyond his thirteen-year-rule, he would have perhaps been considered as another Peter the Great.**

**Nevertheless, I have once again fused history with fiction by having Erik interfere in an attempt on Alexander's life. As history claims that the Russian tsar was very mistrustful of people, even his advisors. **

**I do hope that everyone has enjoyed the chapter. I realise it was, perhaps, disjointed a bit with Christine delving into the past with comte's death and all. But I find it important for her to, at least, acknowledge Erik's part in the whole affair. As we can also see her deep conviction in the Divine, and how her and Erik's relationship is beginning to change. I absolutely enjoyed writing the scene in chapel! It was a nice break from all of that personal conflict and angst!**

**Also, on an added note, I wish to address something about my one-shot _Idle Recollections on a Red Death._ At the end, I realise that some questioned whether or not Erik and Christine die. To answer this, I will post its companion: _A Moment's Absolution_. Again, I am sorry for the confusion at the end of that one-shot. I tried to make it clear, but somehow failed. (Sighs.)**

**And once again, I really wish to thank everyone who has reviewed, most especially to those of you who have read, reviewed, and have stayed with me through this writing odyssey. Your loyalty is very much appreciated! I thank you again.**


	18. Chapter Seventeen: A Lesson WellLearned

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Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Seventeen.

Seven months passed as the idyllic splendour of time fell away into the forgotten recesses of memory. Christine had never felt such peace, such irreproachable contentment since the days following the death of her father. The weathered, pain-ridden face that had engraved itself upon her mind had somewhat faded over the course of time, the etchings of suffering no longer causing the bitter strain upon her heart as it once had.

Death was no longer a living concept, as it was inevitably set aside for another day. The time to live her life had washed away the fear and the degradation of existing in a state of eternal sadness. She could no longer think, or even consider the pain her father endured as he drew his last breath; the memory of it had been stripped away by a skeletal hand whose wondrous touch liberated her from the winter that pervaded her heart.

Christine inwardly smiled. For ever since that evening in the chapel, she and her once-tormentor came to an agreement as both relinquished the conflict that remained between them, past regrets and times of deceit eternally forgotten by the mere caress of his hand upon her face.

Erik came to her, seemingly without hesitation, or even regret. Each evening he would come to her, telling her stories of places that bordered upon imagination. She revelled in this as he stayed with her, her unending curiosity provoking her to ask him of his life at the Opéra, before they met.

Her questions on his life were generally answered, albeit reluctantly. At times, though, she felt that he omitted certain facts from his life. She inwardly frowned whenever he would not talk of his past more openly. It was if he wished to shield her from things that might—and perhaps would—trouble her. She did not wish to know how many fell to his mercy upon seeing him.

As for his life prior to the Opéra, he rarely spoke of it, always evading any question she asked concerning it. The first and only glimpse of his childhood had been his slight admission when he mentioned his mother. It was the first—and last time—he spoke of the woman who gave him life.

It was for the best, Christine silently reasoned. She had no desire to learn of a woman she had already grown to hate. And she secretly knew that even though it was a terrible, childish thing on her part, she could not feel guilt, or even remorse for the disgust she felt. The only comfort she had from the ordeal was that Erik would not have to endure any more pain from the one who should have loved him most.

She turned her thoughts away then, leaving the dead in cold silence as she stared upon the new life cradled within her arms. The newest addition to the Romanov family was beautiful beyond compare, even her name bespoke of the great things she would one day accomplish.

The Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna Romanov quietly whimpered as Christine held her, the tiny fingers moving tentatively over the soft confines of the fleece blanket. The former prima donna smiled, nurturing the child as if she were her own.

"She is beautiful, is she not?" Marie questioned from behind, her dark eyes moving over her youngest daughter.

"Indeed she is," Christine murmured quietly, her eyes remaining fixed upon the tiny sleeping life.

Marie saw this silent act of maternal devotion and smiled. "I believe that you will one day make a most excellent mother, Christine. For you already seem to have the gift of quieting her where others have failed," she commented proudly. "And that in itself is a most wondrous feat."

Christine flushed at the empress' words, wholly embarrassed. "She only wishes to be held," she demurred with tangible humility.

"True," Marie concurred, and the shook her head. "But still, you should consider having some of your own one day—not that you should at this moment," she quickly amended, "but maybe one day a few years from now." She winked in confidence. "My Sasha wanted children from even before the day we married. He was blessed with six." She slightly frowned. "Well, five now."

Christine looked at Marie questionably as she mentally calculated the children of the Romanov family, which ultimately came to the uneven number.

The empress sighed heavily. "My first child—Alexander—was such a beautiful boy. He was so wonderful, so full life." She paused, her beautiful face reflecting a maternal sorrow that only mothers who had lost a child could ever know. "He lived for almost a year. But then fell ill and died due to swelling of the brain.

"I held him, cradling him against me…until the end," she finished sadly. "It has been one of the most difficult things I have ever undergone." And despite the sudden sensation of tears, she slightly smiled. "But Sasha and I remember the time we had with him. We even had a sketch and photograph made of him, to always remember him by."

Marie silently moved to the desk drawer of her bed's nightstand and removed a thin sheet of paper. "Here it is," she said, handing Christine the image of the infant. "That is my son. Was he not beautiful?"

A feeling of pity mixed with sympathy washed over Christine as she saw the tears that threatened to fall from Marie's dark eyes. "Indeed he was," she quietly whispered as she returned the yellowed photograph to Marie. "He must have been a wonderful child."

The empress smiled through a set of unbroken tears. "He was. Everybody loved him," she quietly reflected, returning the photograph to its sacred place, where it could be looked upon at another time when the tears could freely fall without restraint.

But in spite of her own, self-appointed misery, Marie smiled, setting aside the tears and anguish and focusing upon her youngest daughter. "But it seems that even though God may have taken my son before his time, He has ultimately blessed me with five more. And I cannot express the happiness my children have given me." She shook her head, her idle gaze thoughtful, almost pensive. "And here I once believed in _not_ having them."

Both women laughed at Marie's remark as the young grand duchess whimpered against Christine. And seeing the child's cries becoming infinitely louder the former prima donna carefully placed the now-wailing infant in the care of Marie's awaiting arms.

"There, there," she quieted her daughter until the cries fell away to silence. Looking thoughtfully at her sleeping child she smiled, and then looked up to Christine. "I wish to thank you for helping me these past few days with Olga. I believe no maid or nurse could do any better."

Christine smiled. "I am glad to have been given the opportunity." Her fingers moved and against the sleeping infant's arm. "She has not given me any trouble."

The empress laughed. "Of course she would not. I just pray that she does not have her father's temperament when she is older." She gently sighed. "Children are wonderful. That is, if you want them." She looked at Christine, her tired expression meaningful. "But I am sure that you and your husband have already discussed the matter of children."

A hesitant reply almost escaped Christine when Marie mentioned the possibility of children. The idea itself could not come to fruition, just as she could not bring herself to admit her desire to have them.

For nothing real could come out of their marriage, especially a child. Erik could not be a father, of that she was gravely certain. From what little she knew of his childhood, he had suffered badly because of his mother's cruelty and neglect, and because of it, would not have the means of patience and understanding to raise a child, much less come to love it. Erik had barely begun to trust her again. And deep inside, she knew that her life with him would be sadly vacant of the innocent laughter of children.

She felt a bitter sting of disappointment, and it numbed her heart. It would be difficult, she knew, as the years passed leaving her and Erik as the other's sole companion. She had ultimately sacrificed her chance to become a mother who cared and worried over her children. And she did all of this, for him.

And yet, the forfeit of such dreams was not in vain, for she could not regret staying with Erik. In truth, she had decided long ago that she could part with the promise of children if it meant that she could somehow save the one who truly needed her. For Erik, she would relinquish all, even her life. Her feelings for him had turned into something she could not dare describe. Erik would have her—mind, heart, and soul—before the final curtain of their lives fell.

Thus in mind, she looked at the empress and faintly smiled. "As you have said before, Erik and I have some time before deciding anything," she said enigmatically. "Besides, your children have been very kind in their attempts to occupy my time with them." Her smile proved the validity of her words as she recalled the many times Xenia crawled up on her lap as the others gathered around her, their laughter and smiles giving her the normalcy she so desperately wanted. The Romanov children were, as a whole, a pleasure to be around.

Marie mirrored Christine's smile. "And their feelings toward you are mutual. I am not sure what they will do if you leave court." She slightly frowned. "And if you must, I hope that it will not be for a while longer," she added, her expression thoughtful. "I honestly believe that everyone will be saddened by your departure."

She hesitated a moment, as if debating whether or not to add her own regret in Christine's inevitable departure, for the young woman she had come to know was, perhaps, the only honest person she had ever known. And it would be difficult to say farewell to one so kind, so pure that not even the sheer opulence of the Russian court could taint such living wonder. It was a pity that others who were reared to be ladies fell short and could not be more like Christine.

Setting aside the painful thought of her newest friend and confidant would one day leave, however, she instead added. "I know Sasha will be once your husband leaves. Why he is intrigued with old maps of palaces and ancient structures is beyond me. I am just grateful that your husband does not overindulge him too much."

At the empress' rueful words, Christine laughed. "I believe Erik has the same interest in maps. I can remember that he had quite a collection at his home," she said, as the memory of ancient leathery charts came to mind. "I believe he said that some even dated back to the fourteenth century."

"Indeed," Marie returned, slightly intrigued at how one not of noble standards could attain such rarities and how Christine mentioned it as her husband's 'home' and not theirs. But she immediately discounted her suspicions. As it seemed that her husband's impression on the couple had not been wrong, for both were rather intriguing, if not secretive in their own way. However, she found Christine's open and sincere opinion on things to be more welcoming than that of her husband's more pedestrian and mediocre of interests.

"But let us speak of other, more interesting things that do not concern maps," Marie offered, deciding to change the subject. Seeing Christine's interest, she added, "Have you found what you plan to wear to my little party next week?"

Christine smiled, nodding as she recalled Marie's excitement over her desire to hold a small celebration in accordance with the upcoming Russian Season. Never before had she witnessed the gaiety and sheer delight that Marie proudly displayed. It was as if the very halls of the palace echoed the joy and laughter that came from its mistress' anticipation.

Nevertheless, Christine believed that it would at least aid in the empress' recovery over suffering from a small bout of influenza, where she herself aided in Marie's recovery by offering her time to the children. And she realized that it was a small price to pay for the kindness both Marie and her husband gave to her and Erik.

"I thought maybe the silk gown that is encrusted with pearls would be my choice," Christine said, idly recalling the dress Erik had made for her.

"Ah, the dark blue evening gown with the lace trimming." Marie nodded, silently agreeing with the choice. "It will suit you well, my dear. Its dark tones will certainly bring out the colour of your eyes." She gingerly smiled. "At least you have chosen something, as I have yet to do.

"But enough of gowns," she quietly amended, adding, "You know of my plans already—the ones with the dancing and festivities?" Her dark eyes gleamed impishly in the dimmed light.

"Of course," Christine agreed, sharing in on Marie's delight. "And you still have not told your husband, have you?" she questioned, her wondrous smile uncontained.

Marie shook her head. "No. I do so believe that he will be…rather surprised when he sees what I have planned." She silently asked Christine to come closer, as she whispered, "I am having a teller of fortunes to come as well." She noticed Christine's confusion and continued, "The esteemed _Signora_ Bartonelli will also attend. She is the most auspicious clairvoyant in the whole of Europe. She will provide the evening's entertainment with fortune readings and some insight on what others are _even _thinking!"

The former prima donna gasped, her eyes slightly widening. The dark sensation of an ominous advent almost stayed her heart. But in spite of her sudden apprehension, she set it aside, and smiled, giving the empress confidence in her choice. "I am sure that your husband will be most…surprised by this."

The empress laughed. "Sasha has no idea as to what I have planned." She grinned mischievously. "And nor will he until my party begins. I fear I cannot have him intervening when I want my own fortune read. I have always wanted one to tell me of what lies ahead in the future."

Christine noticed the brief, almost childlike innocence Marie displayed, and she found that she also agreed with Marie's wish to enjoy her choice, albeit she still remained unnerved by it.

A resounding crack within the distance shattered all concerns she may had, as both she and Marie looked to the door, which was slightly ajar from her entrance an hour prior. The empress glanced at it and shook her head.

"It was most likely a draft coming in from the rooms being renovated." Marie waved her hand in a dismissing gesture. "It happens quite often in this section of the palace. Pay no heed to it."

Marie's comforting reassurance did little to quell any concern. Christine nodded, however, though still unsure of her reservations of the sound's origin, and if it had been something more than mere a current of air pressing against the ancient walls of the palace. To her, the crack sounded angry, almost sinister, as if _someone_ ad directed it, and not the wind.

But despite this, Christine set her uncertainties aside, finding herself partially agreeing with the empress' assertion. It _was_ nothing more than the wind, as Marie had said. Perhaps her time in the cellars of the Opéra had somehow altered the logical part of her reasoning. And yet, she could not fully disregard the remote feeling that it was much more than that. What it was, though, she did not know.

She vaguely heard Marie suggest that they take a stroll through the palace. She looked at the empress and smiled, agreeing to escort the bedridden woman.

Marie smiled. "My gratitude is boundless, Christine." An exaggerated sigh escaped her. "I have been shackled to this bed long enough. You cannot imagine the constant desire to escape from the many physicians who tell me to stay here, especially when I am not ill. I begin to wonder if they even _know_ how to cure the ailments of those who seek their aid."

Christine laughed at Marie's bitter assertions as she aided the slightly feverish woman down the corridor, her mind lighter now, since she no longer thought of the arcane sound that seemed to echo within the depths of her own uncertainty.

…

An hour had passed and the madness refused to subside, the dark anticipation of the storm that raged from within doubling the dread of the tempest from without as golden eyes stared vacantly upon the arrangement of duelling swords that lay concealed under glass.

Erik stared at the imperial swords of the tsar, remotely reflecting upon each. His gloved hands moved over the smooth glass as if caressing the hilt of each blade with the deft touch of a practiced executioner. He considered them in silence, for each held a symbolic meaning in their decoration. He even noticed the golden-hilted blade that the first Romanov tsar used.

Each sword, he quietly reflected, held a meaning deeper, more profound in its history compared to those who held lesser prestige, as they were used for ceremonial purposes—and not for that of war or the sole reason of creating such a fine instrument of death—only furthered his disgust for the passive courts of the West.

He inwardly balked at the notion of the more _civilized_ empires, as he held little regard for the island kingdom to the north, and even less for his native land. Even the tsar's kingdom was beginning to lose what little standing it had acquired over the passing centuries. And as Alexander's rule endured, so would his empire as it would turn to the west and embrace the factions and crudeness of industrialization.

And as such, everything that he knew and understood had begun to change. He smirked under the mask. Everything, he realized, except himself. The grave finality of his desire to remain constant warred with the reality that he would inevitably have to accept.

But how could he? he silently questioned. How could he accept, or even consider the change that affected him now, as all thoughts led him to this exalted room of destruction? He felt neither peace, nor comfort by the blades whose silent bodies of steel echoed the cries of those who had fallen upon them. The divine vision of Christine would not allow him to.

A stab of pained apathy almost caused his hold on the glass case to crack, the images of the past hour tormenting him with their silent cruelty. The silence of the now-fading memories forced him to recall the pleasant exchange between the empress and Christine, as his own reasons abruptly dissipated in a sea of disbelief.

He had come to intrude upon his wife's gracious consideration of appeasing the bedridden empress from the tedious vulgarity of involuntary confinement with the intention of escorting her through the gardens. He had done this since that strange, and yet, wonderful evening of visiting her in the palace's chapel. Her gentle smile and acceptance of his hand had become an unspoken ritual between them, one in which, much to his chagrin, he secretly delighted in.

Those evenings with her almost made him resent his toleration of Alexander's childish aspiration to rebuild and reconstruct the empire, albeit the passing months of progress had done nothing to dull the uneasiness the young ruler now had since the assassination attempt on his life. In truth, Alexander, though always gracious in his skilled demeanour as a monarch, still harboured a sense of reservation for his new advisor of architecture.

Alexander now regarded Erik with a deadened calm that bespoke his respect of such an unfathomable entity. And though he never mentioned the events following his near-assassination, or how he managed to secure a private disposal of the body, the tsar still held his overall appreciation for the designs and advice of a man who had murdered countless.

In truth, Alexander secretly feared for his family and the survival of the empire. The wearing upon his regal visage had only confirmed what Erik knew already: That the tsar feared for the future of Russia if he met an unfortunate end before his time.

He silently frowned underneath the mask as such concerns should not vex him. His influence on the tsar's decisions was minute compared to his dealings with the Persian Shah. And unlike his murderous rage to exact revenge on his former sovereign, he had no intentions of disrupting Alexander's rule, for he strangely found himself actually accepting the tsar's company without protest, as he had of the former _daroga_ who, unfortunately, still believed his adversary and nemesis to be dead.

And it was this belief that Erik did not want questioned.

He had to remain dead in the eyes of all, for Christine's sake, and also his own. As he could not—would not—allow fate to once again intervene and take her from him, not when he was so close to…

He closed his eyes, painfully recalling the misery that had inexorably drawn him to this room. The empress' comments, although civil and kind in their entirety, had opened a wound that lay just beneath the surface of his tumultuous relationship with Christine.

The bitter upsurge of emotions it inflicted had silenced his beloved, and prevented him to retrieve her as he listened by the door to the empress' conversation concerning the inevitable outcome of a union between man and wife. Children, he silently reflected, were not a concern for him, not at his age, and certainly not for Christine.

And her response to the empress' inquiry, though hesitant, marked the understanding of something that both had left unspoken. The slight nuances of pain and acceptance within her expression before answering went unnoticed by the empress. Christine masked her inner disquiet well—almost too well.

Had he not been there to witness the exchange between commoner and sovereign, and then hear the evasion of the question posed, he would not be here, lingering in the darkness of his own, dejected musings. Christine knew very little of his childhood, but understood that it had not been as hers with a father that loved and adored his child—who had the paternal devotion of one who sacrificed all for his daughter.

The thought of Christine's father…vexed him, as he could not allow a continuum of that rare, Scandinavian line. To do so, would only end in pain. And he secretly regretted that his beloved would never know of his need to remain childless, for he could never bring himself to father _any_ child, especially Christine's. The notion of fathering her children almost pained the remaining fragments of the devotion he had for her, for he had not misled her when he told her that she would be pure of all corruption.

She _would_ remain a virgin bride, he vowed. Christine could never be touched, or tainted by the world…even by the hands that longed to touch her, to understand the intriguingly wondrous mind and beautiful face that clouded all reason, all rationality to the brink of a most splendid madness in which he welcomed without hesitation.

Erik closed his eyes and cast the thought aside, refusing to consider the inevitable outcome of such dark ruminations. Christine affected him in ways that no other living being had ever dared to. For she, with her kind smile and unreserved welcome of joining his hand with hers, had managed to render and seek out the last remaining trace of his humanity. His beloved Christine, given time, obliterated the anger and lust for vengeance that had festered deep within his unbeating heart. And he refused to return to the darkness of isolation—not unless she joined him in its placating depths of despair.

But could he condemn her to such a hellish nightmare? he silently wondered, though already knowing the answer. In his mind, he knew of the consequences of caging such innocent wonder in the shadows, forever extinguishing the light and purity from her eyes. And yet, against all reason, he found that he could not release her from the invisible bonds that corded her to him. Christine belonged to Erik, and Erik alone.

And as such, she would remain in the darkness, her untouched innocence waning ever so slightly by the wearing hands of time. The years would inevitably fade her naïveté in all things, but her overall beauty and grace could never diminish, as she would remain in a state of faultless perfection, her immaculate splendour unbroken by a diseased world surrounding her.

However, she would not be alone to suffer such outrageous misfortune, for he would be with her. As he had decided long ago, long before her tears for his poorly-misshapen face and cold neglect of his mother ever fell. The past several months spent in her company had only intensified a long forgotten sentiment he had for his beloved, broken angel: Compassion. He felt her pain, endured it as she cried against him in the long hours of the night.

He inwardly frowned, considering her tears, for she had not shed them since the night of their bargain. But before, he quietly reflected, before she would cry in her room at his home or in the small flat belonging to that of her surrogate mother. And he would hear the soul-wrenching cries emitted within each pained sob, as he listened, intently, into the dark hours before dawn.

Christine had not known of his nightly visits to the flat, or even how he lingered by her door when she stayed with him. How could he tell her, when he feared to touch her then? She would have shattered at the cold, skeletal feel of his hands. And it was for this reason that he wore gloves whilst being around her or others. He failed to believe that she would actually welcome his touch otherwise. For if Christine were to do so, would mean that she actually…

No, he could not think of that, not after everything. Obtaining her trust was all he dared to want of her now, as the splendid notion of her betrayal vanquished any past remnant of affection, quelling what he may have once felt for her. He desired her, wanted her even. But he could never feel anything akin to the emotion that the Greeks often spoke of. And he knew, as his mind echoed the truth that his tormented soul could never acknowledge: That he no longer loved Christine Daaé.

And with this bitter admission, his head inclined in unspoken shame as his mind and soul warred over the fabricated truth of what he could not deny. He vaguely heard the approaching footsteps of a child no more than fourteen summers behind him, the silently hesitant scuffled sound of fine Hessian leather gracing against the marble floor.

"Your grace," Erik quietly acknowledged as he failed to turn and address the tsarevich properly.

Nicholas took no heed of the man's blatant show of discourtesy. Instead he remained silent, mouth agape by the sight before him. His widened slightly as observed the staid figure before him. The cloak that had once concealed this man's identity had now been stripped away, revealing a thin, skeleton-like frame.

He stared at the enigmatic figure—the one his father praised and confided in above those who more trusted among the royal family, those who were more Russian—considering the reasons as to why this man evoked a strange, yet terrifying, magnetic intensity that could render the strength of kingdoms and dynasties to naught.

In a way, Nicholas silently admitted, this man, being—whatever he was—had somehow intrigued all with his presence, as his voice, which was too divine to be that of mere mortals, had somehow captivated those who heard it. And he did not doubt that Christine, the beautiful nymph whom he adored, had also fallen to this enchanter's spell.

The young tsarevich glared at the unmoving statue of flesh, innately despising this man for his obtaining what others dared to dream of. He held all within the palm of his hand like idle grains of sand from an hourglass. He was the master of song, of brilliance, as he had left all within a dazed stupor. Oh, yes, he had seen this man intrigue the court with his presence, always watching within the shadows as the others were unaware of his secret observance.

Nevertheless, he remained silent, as he considered this man, weighing against the subtle spite that festered from within. This man who, without the death shroud looked to be very frail indeed, concealed something under the mask, as the long, perfect strands of sepia-coloured hair veiled the rest as it was tied in a queue of dark leather.

Strange, Nicholas thought to himself. He could have sworn the man had little hair from the few passing glances he had of him, as he also recalled an instance where the hood had fallen in the de Maricourt's haste to retrieve Christine one evening.

He admitted that he sometimes watched Christine accept her husband's invitation, when both departed the palace to the gardens and the woods that lay beyond its grounds. It was common knowledge among the servants, and also the family that the guests of the tsar would frequent the solitude that both seemingly desired in the midst of those who watched them too closely. Even he limited himself in his observations of the lovely Christine de Maricourt since he feared her husband's wrath, but more importantly, that of his father's.

Nicholas vaguely heard the painfully familiar voice of the demon before him, and his thoughts dissipated into a cloud of confusion as he acknowledged the one whom he dared to confront.

"Is there something that I can do for you, your grace?" Erik asked apathetically, his voice masked with cold indifference. His head lowered, as he remained where he was, not turning to face the boy who stared at him. "Or would you prefer to continue your glaring silent threats at my back?"

"_Monsieur_, I—" Nicholas hesitated greatly, but then righted himself. "I wished to speak you on a certain matter."

"Why?" Erik questioned, still refusing to acknowledge the heir apparent.

The young tsarevich did not flinch at the callous demeanour of his addresser, instead held firm to his reasons for approaching this man who hid behind a mask. He glared, not caring to heed the words of his mother by remembering the name he represented. This man did not deserve to be recognized, or even acknowledged in a courteous manner.

"Then I shall be blunt, _monsieur_," Nicholas returned coldly. "You have been living in my father's house for almost a year. And in that time, you have captivated—or I should very well say _bewitched_—everyone at court." He shook his head, revealing nothing less than loathsome disgust. "The priests, along with every noble head in Christendom, believe you to some sort of a magician who can conjure intrigue and mystery out of nothing."

Erik remained silent at the accusation, allowing the tsarevich his tirade over the alleged crimes he was charged with. The boy was of little concern to him, as he did not find any viable threat towards him or Christine.

He merely glanced at the child, his voice posing indifference. "Are you finished, your grace?"

Nicholas said nothing, only stared, his silent aversion to the man before him pressing him to answer. "No, _monsieur_, I am far from being finished with you."

"Then pray, continue, your grace," Erik muttered, a malevolent smirk moved itself upon his twisted lips when he added, "I fear I do not have until tomorrow for an answer."

The boy snorted at the rejoinder. "Indeed I shall, then," he retorted dryly, his blue eyes losing a fraction of innocence amidst the anger and suspicion that tainted them. He glanced at his silent opponent carefully, before turning to retrieve a fencing sword that hung upon the wall. He paid little heed to the possible danger of threatening one he did not know.

"I suppose I had best be honest and make my suspicions known," he said, the blade within his hand moving cautiously to his side. "The fact of the matter is that, where my own father and mother trust you, I fear I cannot place so much faith in one I do not know."

At the tsarevich's words, Erik nodded as he bade the boy to continue.

And Nicholas did not disappoint him, adding, "The truth is that you should not be here, living with us. I _know_ you have secrets, _monsieur_, some of which I am sure my father would have you shot for." He hesitantly paused, but found the courage to continue. "I have very little doubt that whatever secret you hold is also related to that infuriating mask you wear."

The masked architect quietly laughed, but did not turn to meet the boy's exasperated visage. "Perhaps, your grace," he returned cryptically. "But do you consider it wise to imperil yourself against someone you believe to be dangerous? I could be a murderer, after all."

Nicholas blanched, but refused to be provoked by such cynical remarks. "I do not place myself in danger, _monsieur_, for it would be most unwise if I am found dead. And I trust that my father's beliefs in you will prove to hold true since…"

He slightly frowned, refusing to admit the reason for his being here, whereas the jealousy to be somewhat like this man compelled him to confess all. "You have everything, _monsieur_," he began timidly. "I have watched as people become entranced by your presence alone. My father speaks only praises of you, my mother echoing his delight. You have everything; mystery, intrigue, all of which are desirable. You have even captivated Christine." He looked down, almost as if in shame.

Erik turned at the utterance name. His golden eyes locked with those of tsarevich, almost menacingly. "What about Christine?"

The boy paled slightly, hesitating by the newly-invoked fear of this man. In the fatal turn of a passing moment, he knew of the power and danger that completed this man, and he realized that mentioning Christine had not been wise.

"Answer me, boy," Erik demanded; setting aside all respect for this child's mandated station.

Nicholas flinched, but nevertheless stood against his innate desire to evade the dark entity whose eyes burned like amber spheres of hellfire. He would not fear this man and his darkness; he would be honest and not cower as a lesser man would. And with this revelation, he quietly nodded, and chose his words carefully.

"Christine—_Madam_ de Maricourt, I should say—is truly a wonderful lady," he began, his words almost hesitant. Yet, he continued. "She is kind, affectionate—all of my brothers and sisters adore her—as do I," he quietly admitted, hazarding a glance toward the man before him.

"The courtiers extol her for both her charm and grace. And I realise that they are correct when they say that such beauty has not been seen for quite some time. I will not lie to you, _monsieur;_ Christine is beautiful. I myself cannot help but find her to be." He had the grace to blush at his words. "I know that she could have any man here, a prince even. For what man would not yearn to have such perfection is his possession?" He paused, his words meaningful as he bade the faceless man to listen to him. "But I know that no other could sway her with his proclamations of love and loyalty; I have seen it."

The tsarevich glanced down at his hands and fumbled them awkwardly, before obliging himself to finish his damning confession. He looked at the de Maricourt once more, finding the means to speak at last. "And as such, I know that she could never want someone who could offer her a title, even the world itself, if such a thing is possible. Even if I were a few years older than she,"—He shook his head in an apologetic manner.—"I know that my expectations would come to naught. How could they, when she speaks only of you? It is apparent that she desires the man she married, even if others cannot see it."

He gently sighed in rueful defeat. "And so, I must confess that my reasons for seeking your audience were to sadly meet my own jealous ends." The darkness within his eyes lightened a fraction at his admission, and he smiled. "I envy you, _monsieur_, for you have acquired something that many search for, yet seldom find. I can only pray that I will be as fortunate to have such a wonderful wife as you have done. I fear I can settle for no less than that."

Nicholas turned from the silent de Maricourt and looked at the sword in his hands, an idea forming within his mind. He slightly smiled and once again acknowledged the masked man. "I do not suppose you have any skill with a blade, do you?"

A dark brow rose under the mask, the bemusement and utter surprise of the tsarevich's revelation temporarily evading all rational thought. Erik righted himself, casting aside any sentiment akin to hesitation. So the boy wished to test his knowledge. He smirked under the mask, as the desire to repay the young heir in kind overcame his judgment.

"Of course, I do, your grace," he replied with like civility.

The boy smiled. "Wonderful," he said, and retrieved another fencing sword from its stay. "Perhaps you could demonstrate some of what you know. I fear that my studies, and also Mother, refuse to allow me the practice. If you would, _monsieur,_ I shall appreciate a moment of your instruction."

"Indeed," Erik returned, accepting the offered blade.

And so it had begun. Nicholas held the rapier in a defensive stance while his _tutor_ took the offensive. Both moved with the diligent grace of two warriors sworn to a nameless cause that both fervently believed in. Nicholas held fast against Erik's decisive strikes against his person, as he quite naturally parried each without complaint. He grinned at the masked man, pride moving within him that he did not wear the protective covering of a swordsman's visor. To do so, he realised, would show weakness in his character. And the future heir could not abide a show of anything less than what an heir apparent should be. It would be both a disgrace not only to him and his family, but Russia itself. And he refused to allow a man—a Frenchman, no less—to obtain victory. The victory, or lesson, he silently corrected, would not be his opponent's, but his. He would see to it.

He moved forward then, setting aside his defence to attack his opponent fully. His blade moved faster, swifter as it forced the other to retaliate. Erik held firmly against Nicholas' unexpected strikes, his own gait falling back to that of a guarded bearing. His eyes burned; the anticipation and winding intrigue of the tsarevich's show of courage compelling him to allow the boy a turn at taking the offensive.

Nicholas grinned under a subtle foray of concentration, his onslaught of strikes full of dreaded audacity. He frowned, however, when he vaguely noticed the unmistakable gleam of delight within his opponent's yellow eyes. And he inwardly shuddered at the sight of the subtle pleasure within their golden depths, almost losing his concentration _and_ his advantage. But he highly doubted that such a thing could affect the outcome of the fight, since victory lay within those hellish feral spheres.

And it was within Nicholas' realization that Erik noticed his advantage. He set aside his defence, moving forward to parry the tsarevich's assault. He nodded to his opponent; his eyes alight with dark amusement. The silent spur of his entertainment stemmed from the boy's blanched expression, and with a delicate flick of his wrist, he severed the dangerous weapon before him, disarming the boy with the dignified grace of a skilled master, before placing his own victorious blade against his felled rival's pale throat.

Both teacher and pupil regarded each other with the respect both merited, despite the slight wariness found within the tsarevich's blue eyes. Erik considered his adversary with deference, nonetheless, a wave of true admiration for the boy replacing the mild irritation he had only moments before. He said nothing in acknowledgment, as his eyes conveyed his appreciation for such a worthy duel. In truth, he considered instructing the young heir in another lesson. But the scream that followed, however, shattered whatever thought he had as he gazed upon his beloved bride whose pallid features rivalled that of the empress' bemused expression.

A moment, both filled with awkward tension and unease, held the room's occupants in place, the past proceedings compelling all to remain silent. Erik looked at Christine, albeit uneasily, seeing her wavering expression. He had frightened her, as his blade remained poised against the grand duke's throat.

"Erik," she whispered, almost inaudibly, heavy concern filled within her questioning eyes.

Erik glanced at his wife, the shame of his actions hidden deep behind the mask. She would find reason to no longer trust him if she believed him to be capable in harming a mere child. And with this pained notion, he removed the weapon, placing it at his side, his eyes silently pleading for her to understand.

But Christine did not answer his plea. Instead it was Marie who spoke, revealing her droll amusement. "That was a marvellous demonstration, _Monsieur_ de Maricourt!" Her delicate hands applauded him. "I have never seen my Nicky disarmed before. And in such a graceful manner as well," she furthered, and then turned to her son, her mother's voice returning. "And as for you, my dear, should you not be attending to your studies?"

Nicholas blanched. "Yes, Mother," he mouthed, his dark head inclined, the sword resting shamefully at his side.

The empress' smile widened, and she turned to face Christine, her pallid expression considerate. "I wish to thank you for your accompanying me today. Please enjoy the rest of the evening with your husband," she murmured quietly, for only Christine to hear, and then turned her gaze toward the man in question. "And I must thank you, good _monsieur, _for disarming my son. Indeed, he can be quite insistent in his learning of the sword."

Erik merely nodded at the empress' compliments of praise.

Marie accepted his silence without injury. "Then I shall leave you to your own devices. Good evening," she said, leaving the bemused couple behind in complete silence, her footsteps echoing in perfect accord with that of her son's.

…

**Author's Note: I realise this update has been long overdue, and for that I most sincerely apologise. I have just been so busy worrying about continuing university and everything else of late. I have also been teaching on the side, as well. It has been a nightmare, to be sure.**

**Nevertheless, I am hopeful that this chapter, in some part, makes up for it. I apologise for any errors on the grammatical front; I simply wanted to get this posted. I vowed that I would, sometime by May. JenWren, this is for you! For here it is: the next chapter, on the final day of the month! (Smiles.)**

**But again, I hope it is all right. I felt that it ended at a fairly decent place. Erik does not have the final say for once! I daresay the tsarina beat him to it! (Chortles.)**

**And most importantly, before I end this note. I wish to extend a most sincere and heartfelt thank you to all of you who have read and reviewed! I do not know where this story would be without your continued support. Thank you again!**


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Prelude to a Nightmare

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Mask's Lament.

Chapter Eighteen.

Winter had finally descended upon the palace of the Romanovs, leaving it and its surrounding borders bathed in a blanket of fresh white snow. The trees, along with the world without, carried the dusky white expanse, leaving only small patches of darkness underneath its pristine veneer. It was, if anything, no less than beautiful, and greatly reminded Christine of her childhood, in the faraway lands of her beloved Sweden. For unlike the snows in Paris, this Russian winter storm made her relive those tumultuous winters after her mother's death, where she and her father, with no home and very little money to go on, survived in what way they could, since they had little else but each other.

Times had been very difficult then, Christine instantly recalled as she stared through the panes of an ornate gallery window. Times had indeed been difficult, and yet they had been the simplest and most endearing moments of her life. Her father had been with her, after all, almost contented in their nomadic existence, telling her stories, encouraging her voice and imagination.

In essence, they were nought but a pair of homeless wanderers surviving on what little they earned from their musical talents. They no longer had to worry over the rent, were no longer tied to anything but to God and each other. Those moments of uncertainty had been almost liberating for Christine. For it was in those moments that she had actually felt _free_.

A few, heavy flakes fell against the window then, and Christine watched them with vague interest, her mind still lingering on the past. She considered what her beloved mama was doing at home. Was she still bedridden, or had her health improved? Christine had no way of knowing, of course. Though all the same, she could not help but wonder. She even wondered whether anyone took care to visit her ailing surrogate mother. Surely Raoul would, just as he would tend to her father's grave in Perros. It was nearly Christmas, after all, and Christine, as Raoul knew, always decorated her father's grave with flowers for the occasion. Surely he would do so for her in her absence.

Her head inclined sharply at the thought, memories of the venerable Daaé flooding his child's mind. Christine's thoughtful expression faltered as she considered the beautiful, barren landscape without, thoughts of her father, lying cold and dead in his pauper's grave thousands of miles away, without anyone to visit him plaguing her mind. For where was his little Christine, but half a world away, and in the care of one considered a murderer?

_Oh, Papa_, thought Christine, a little forlornly. _If only you could see your Christine now, living in a grand palace, with the Angel of Music at her side. How proud would you be of your little Christine, who can barely summon forth the strength to speak to one who is not an angel but a man who masquerades himself as her husband? How would you see your little Christine then, Papa, when she can scarcely face herself in the mirror_? she quietly demanded of her dead father, though received no answer in return. She hadn't expected one. Her father was with the angels; and she, lost and alone in her silent musings, was with her fellow man.

A crash suddenly distracted her from her thoughts as the scurrying of feet and hushed whispers of servants echoed down the corridor. Christine faintly smiled at the commotion, since it was little surprise over the reason for the uproar.

Preparations for the tsarina's celebration for the upcoming Russian Season were well underway, and Christine marvelled at the splendour the palace exalted, as if by overnight, attained, the beauty and luxury of it enhanced by an array of newly installed crystal chandeliers and hothouse flowers, garlands and exotic decorations. All day, she had passed by servants who busied themselves with the task in hand, the mundane actions they exerted reminding her that most of the tsar's household were as familiar with these celebrations as they were with those whom they served. It was almost second nature to them, as singing was to Christine.

She almost smiled at the comparison, although it was a sad smile. In the many months of straining her voice, she still hadn't found the courage to try singing again. _What good would it do, anyhow? _her mind suddenly interjected as she descended down the corridor. _My voice is much too damaged, just as Erik said it would be_.

The thought of Erik and his lack of interest in her voice—a thing he had once prized and claimed his greatest triumph—made her still in her movements. He had been so cold to her, so distant of late. She failed to understand why, even though she, time and again, long desired to know of his sudden disinterest in her. He'd barely spoken to her in the past week that she was beginning to believe that he was shutting her out of his life entirely. She shook her head. It could not have been the incident with the young Nicholas, even though she now understood _what_ had happened between the two.

Nicholas had been an enthusiastic _raconteur,_ when he recounted his lesson with Monsieur de Maricourt to everyone at dinner that evening. Marie had been overly impressed by the whole affair, commending Erik on his skill with a sword. _And yet_, Christine recalled quietly, Alexander himself had remained unnervingly silent throughout the entire exchange. A pensive, almost sceptical expression had marred that hard, royal countenance as he sat in silence and regarded Erik with something akin to uncertainty. Christine had not understood the tsar's behaviour that evening. Nor did she understand it now. She'd only known that Erik had refrained from killing the boy when he could have done so…so easily.

He had even gained an admirer in Nicholas, who now, on occasion, prodded Erik into teaching him the art of the sword when his mother's back was turned. Erik had successfully managed to dissuade the young tsarevich, offering to teach him the use of throwing his voice instead. It was a safer practice, certainly, and Christine could not fault Erik for his tact, as both knew very well what might happen, should something untoward—even accidental—happen to the one next in line for the Russian throne.

Christine inwardly shuddered at the thought, already aware of the dangers royal intrigue posed for her and Erik; she had already countenanced one danger, in particular. She looked down, a sigh of displeasure escaping her. Erik still had not forgiven her for her chance meeting with Count Drazlovsky, and she had not pressed him for that much-desired absolution. For the count, though handsome beyond measure, was a terrifying man to behold. He frightened her in ways she could not understand, as the terror she once had of Erik was but a fraction of the fear she presently felt, when in the young nobleman's company. _Even Erik's face is nothing, compared to the revulsion I feel when I am around a man who is considered the pinnacle of beauty_. She paused in mid-step, her eyes shutting against the two men presently invading her mind.

Both were as different as night and day, the Count Drazlovsky personifying the latter, with his golden head and perfect, smiling face. Whereas Erik, middle-aged and riddled with the cares and troubles of the world, ruled the night, a realm of eternal darkness, that obscured what many believed a hideous creature which deserved to be hidden away, forgotten, and left to its pathetic diversions. It was the same condemnation that she would have once, gladly granted, had she not known the truth of what lay beyond a shattered mask. Raoul had even condemned Erik, and perhaps rightly so, she recalled, but Christine felt herself drawn to the nightmare shadows that had once frightened her. For in her childish fears, she had found something that the light of day could never attain, no matter the freedom and splendour it represented her.

She loved Erik; she could deny herself of that truth no longer. For too long, she'd given herself over to uncertainty by turns, the constant sense of the unknown always retracting that which she felt, from the first moment she had heard his voice. And she knew, that if she were to give in to that most sacrosanct emotion, then she would lose herself forever, for Erik would not let her go—not when he realised her heart belonged to him. He would possess it until the ending of the world; where even in death, Christine knew, Erik would strive to keep that which he believed his.

Christine hesitated at the thought, knowing it a grim reality. She'd never told Raoul of it, certainly; she hadn't told Raoul many things regarding her strange relationship with Erik. She certainly hadn't told him everything that had transpired during the two-week interval of her stay at Erik's house. Little good would come of that frank confession, since she would not only inspire Raoul to challenge an omnipotent ghost, but it would have been a betrayal to Erik, as well. For if she had told Raoul of the nights spent, where Erik, grovelling near her bedside, took simple pleasure in watching her sleep, then Raoul would certainly seek assistance of every noble head in the country, to punish Erik on the grounds of moral indecency.

The former prima donna shook her head. Raoul could still be the boy who had rescued her scarf at times. It a sweet endearment, surely; and Christine was heartened by it, but she had to confess, if only to herself, that Raoul was _nothing_ like Erik. She hated comparing them, since Erik acted like a child—perhaps even more than Raoul—but the two were so incomparably different, that she could not help _but_ to compare them. She had even done so on a number of occasions, usually in the privacy of her dressing room. She'd spent many long hours, simply sitting in front of the mirror, half-wondering if Erik was behind it, watching her. She sometimes felt his presence, sensing those yellow eyes upon her, watching her every motion. Of course, he never watched her when she dressed; Erik was not so as crude as that, but nevertheless he did watch her—perhaps more than was considered normal.

_But Erik is not normal—far from it_, Christine thought dejectedly, and turned a corner as she went down another part of the gallery. She barely registered its poorly-lit expanse, for so caught up in her musings that only the hushed whispers at the end of the corridor broke her out of her dark reverie. She paused in mid-step, straining to hear the matter, but heard only the shuffled sound of footsteps. She paled when she saw her unseen company approach, and frantically hid herself behind a tapestry on the other wall. She prayed that they would not see her shoes, and instantly regretted her height, since the tapestry shifted with her every breath.

Erik would find her meagre attempt in hiding completely ridiculous, but Christine was not as adept in concealing herself in the shadows as he, even though her dark-blue gown aided her greatly. She despaired when she heard them draw close, and held her breath when their footsteps stopped, their hushed conversation continuing in thick Russian undertones.

"Graf, you must know that we have to end this. I don't believe I can continue hiding the truth, since someone will surely find out. I almost revealed as much to my mistress," a soft voice broke through the silence.

Christine's eyes widened in recognition of that voice, her mind barely registering the desperation in that sweet tone she'd heard so many times speak in French. It was almost a pity that she could not understand the matter of the conversation, and she forced herself to remain silent as she heard Graf Descanov speak.

"I care not if anyone finds out," Graf returned roughly, wholly unaware of his silent audience. "Think you my very own father cared when he took my mother away from a foreign court? Mina, my family is not one afraid of a scandal, or what others may think or believe. My mother was not even a duchess when my father married her."

Mina closed her eyes, though she had no need to, since she could barely see in the darkness. "Nevertheless," she quietly contested, "your mother was still of noble blood, whereas I am not. I may have been educated, Graf, but I am not so foolish as to believe that people will accept a commoner as a duke's wife."

Graf frowned darkly. "And now you regret my ever laying eyes upon you, is that it? I almost suspect that you've spoken to my bastard of a half-brother," he muttered coldly.

"I've only seen your brother," Mina replied diffidently. "I've never spoken to him, Graf."

He made a face. "You would do well to stay away from him, as would your mistress."

Mina's eyes widened at the suggestion. "What do you mean? Has he spoken with Christine? Is she in any danger of him?"

Graf's grim visage hardened. "Bastien is one who enjoys a difficult conquest, be it over land, title, or something...of a more delicate nature. I daresay your mistress' husband is already aware my half-brother's interest; he is certainly not a fool, since he's already dispatched one of the tsar's potential assassins, God be praised. I doubt even your mistress knows."

"And how do you know of it?" demanded Mina with a frown. "Surely, the tsar would never reveal such—not so soon after his father's death. He has barely been tsar for a year."

"I saw the body being carted away down one of the palace's old tunnels," Graf said simply. "I do not believe he's even told the tsarina, as I doubt he will tell his closest advisors. An attempted assassination is not something to be taken lightly, Mina; though it matters not, since I've little doubt that he shall continue to keep _Monsieur_ de Maricourt in close confidence." He looked at her, that serious expression returning to the crux of their argument. "Nevertheless, Bastien and _Monsieur_ de Maricourt and his wife are of no concern to me at the moment. _You_ _are_, as I've no intention in losing you, Mina. I've loved you, from almost the moment I saw you carry in that tea tray."

Mina laughed, in spite of her tears. "You drank at least seven cups. As I recall, you claimed to the dowager empress that you were 'thoroughly parched.'"

Graf returned her smile. "Which I specifically had you quench," he returned shrewdly, and he wiped away the remainder of her tears. "You do realise that my continued visits to the palace were only to see you, to simply catch a glimpse of your smile. You were always smiling."

Mina's green eyes softened. "I thought you had business with the tsar. I never once considered—you never told me that."

He shrugged indifferently. "You would have believed me completely mad, had you known my interest then. And besides, I did have business with the tsar, although I could have done well enough through a messenger. I did not have to see him every time, Mina."

"Apparently not," she returned, a thoughtful look overcoming her previous discontent. "But what are we to do, Graf? Where do we go from here?"

"Well, of course we shall…" He paused in his answer, taking in the uncertainty he saw on that gentle face. "We shall continue on as before," he said. "Until the Season is over, rather. And then, when everyone retires to their estates, I shall come for you, and make my intent known to my parents and the tsar. The wedding shall be arranged however you wish."

He received a look of disbelief. "You would be contented with a peasant's wedding?" she questioned doubtfully. "I do not believe the aristocracy would approve, let alone your family."

A flash of something akin to irritation glinted in the nobleman's grey eyes. "Darling, I care not whether they approve or disapprove," said he. "In truth, I wholly welcome the idea of such simplicity. A prince's wedding is a most tedious affair, and the nobility can be very overbearing—in any occasion. They're quite suffocating, actually," he mused, before pulling her close, and whispering, "We could even leave the country, just you and I. I've an estate in Prussia that has long been neglected in my time here. But we shall not think of that now; we have until the end of the Season to consider what we shall do."

They continued to speak quietly, unaware of anyone else. They never gave the tapestry a second glance as they kissed, before going their separate ways, to where their stations in life directed them.

Christine allowed herself to finally breathe when she heard their footsteps in the distance. She tried to collect her thoughts; for even though she barely understood the conversation, she knew enough to know that her maid and Graf Descanov were secretly seeing one another. She frowned at the realisation. Of course. It made sense now, considering how Mina had stumbled over her words once; she had almost revealed her lover's name. And if their affair were ever revealed…Christine dreaded to imagine what would befall Mina. She barely registered how she would proceed in speaking with the girl—since she refused to reveal what she knew—before she sensed another's presence.

She hadn't even heard any footsteps; only the faint glimpse of two yellow stars revealed to her that she was not alone. Christine smiled; and, without a second thought, withdrew from her hiding place and grasped the passing dark entity from behind.

"Erik!" she exclaimed when she felt him tense, knowing well enough that he might mistake her for some, faceless attacker. She felt his stillness immediately, though the tension in his body remained.

Erik slowly turned to face her, a visible scowl in those yellow eyes. "What is the meaning of this, Christine?" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "Sneaking up on a fellow like that? Are you deliberately trying to startle me?"

Christine nearly laughed at his discomfiture, but had the good sense to suppress it. She had finally surprised him, as he had done so many times to her before. "I meant no offence," she said, most sincerely. "I merely wanted to surprise you, Erik."

He frowned at that. "Erik doesn't surprises, as you well remember," he responded gruffly, expecting her to express a show of guilt, but received a smile instead. He was equally surprised when placed a comforting hand on one of his arms.

Christine's eyes brightened in spite of the darkness. "I know you don't like surprises, and I am sorry for it," she tenderly expressed. "But then, you have always surprised _me_ in such a way. Do you remember the first time you came out of the shadows and took my hand? I was startled beyond words."

"Erik is better at hiding himself in the shadows than Christine," he said simply, and he regarded her quietly. "And yes, I remember. You fainted and I carried you to the well."

Christine's smile widened, wholly ignoring his referring to himself in the third person. "You were very considerate then," she returned softly, her grasp on his arm tightening significantly. "You were always one to consider my feelings, Erik. You never once complained of them, even when I wanted to visit my father's grave. I never properly thanked you for accompanying me that night to Perros." Her face fell when she saw him turn way. "Erik…" she ventured, the spoken tenderness in his name drifting into the darkness surrounding them.

"What were you doing, hiding yourself away behind a tapestry?" he asked, purposely disregarding her kind attempt to mention one of their happier moments together. "It is not a very good hiding place, you realise; you are rather tall after all, my dear."

"I heard someone coming—before you, that is, not that I actually _heard_ you, of course—down the corridor," she answered quietly. "I had no wish to make my presence known to them."

"Them?" Erik reiterated, turning a suspicious eye on her. "Who are _they_, Christine?" he firmly demanded of her.

She hesitated. "A pair of lovers," she finally answered; the answer close enough to the truth. "It was nothing more than that, I assure you."

But Erik was not satisfied, and Christine inwardly sighed when he further interrogated her. "Then why were you watching them? Why watch something in which you've seen countless times among those ballet rats? I recall La Sorelli being quite free with her charms, particularly to the gentry."

"I had little choice but to watch them, since I simply could not leave without them seeing me," returned a very flustered Christine. She could scarcely believe that Erik would go so far as to even allude to Philippe de Chagny, given how he despised the late comte's brother. "There was little else I _could_ do."

"You were spying on them." He said it as if was the most natural thing in the world. "You are far too curious for your own good at times."

Christine blanched at the implication, but sustained herself. "In essence, perhaps I was, yes, although I understood very little of it, since they spoke in Russian." She shook her head, clearly addled. "It was not as if I _wanted_ to listen to them—quite the contrary, since I had no business overhearing their conversation. I believe a conversation between lovers should be made private from any who would hear them," she said, unable to see Erik's scowling expression from behind the mask. She cried out when she felt one of his icy hands remove her hand from his arm. "Erik, in God's name, what is it? What have I said _now_?" she demanded of him, refusing to play the wounded _ingénue_ for him. She almost smiled when she caught of a hint of disbelief in those yellow eyes. "I've offended you. I should like to know why."

Erik said nothing for a long, quiet moment, his silence pervading the awkward stillness between them. Christine almost believed she had rendered him speechless, since she rarely made a stand against him—she dared not consider what happened that night under the opera—as she so often feared his wrath. And yet, all too soon did her triumph end in defeat as Erik responded in a way she knew all too well.

His yellow eyes gleamed with a hellish, golden light, the cracked mask emphasising their dangerous allure. "Christine should do well to take care of her curiosity, since she has much offended with it," he posed evenly, although there was a hint of unbridled rage in his tone. "She should return to her room and prepare herself for the tsarina's party, since she wishes to please those who love and admire her."

Sensing the danger in remaining close proximity to Erik, Christine took a methodical step away from him. "Erik," she began, obviously at a loss. "Throughout everything that has happened between us, I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted any of this to happen. I never wanted…" She hesitated, unable to continue as she stared into those condemning yellow eyes and realised that she was losing a battle that had been waged, long before she ever stepped one foot outside of the opera.

It was a battle she would continuously lose, no matter her attempt to revive the love which he had once so freely given her. It was too late for that, and yet she smiled for his sake, though it was a hollow smile. "I shall return to my room and prepare myself," she said mechanically, "since I _do_ wish to please those who both love and admire me. I should hate to offend anyone else with my presence."

She turned on her heel and left him in the shadows which engulfed him, a small part of her hoping that he would follow her into the light, yet knowing that he would not. Erik was much too proud, much too stubborn, to admit any fault on his behalf. She would have to accept the blame for him, and she did, though it grieved her.

She cast her foolish hopes aside, and her blue eyes flickered with firm resolution as she returned to the cloistered sanctuary of her private chambers. She would dress for the party, though it would not be for Marie's sake, or for any of the Russian nobility. She would dress because she desired it. She would dress for herself, to make Erik see and understand that she was not a doll to be made for another's pleasure, not even for his.

She was half-surprised to see Mina waiting for her, those small rough hands holding a lovely white gown for the evening's festivities. Christine regarded her maid silently, noticing nothing but the kind innocence Mina always expressed when in her company. She almost laughed at the façade, since she, too, wore a mask of her own.

"Mina," she said as she sat at the vanity table, catching the girl's eye. "I thank you for going to the trouble in preparing my gown, but tonight I believe I shall wear another gown. Will you kindly find me one in red?"

The white gown which Mina devotedly held fell to the floor at the suggestion.

…

**Author's Notes: I want to first apologise for taking so godawful long in updating. I realise that it has been well over a year since my last update, and I am truly sorry for that. I've unfortunately been busy with schoolwork, and the inspiration for this story has only returned to me of late. Nevertheless, I **_**do**_** plan to finish it, since there are only a handful of chapters left. Erik and Christine's story deserves to be finished, and I'm not going to abandon them, **_**nor**_** anyone who is reading this story for that matter.**

**I also apologise for the incredibly short length of this chapter. I had intended for it be longer, but I felt that this was the perfect place to end this chapter. Consider it a prelude to a very explosive night at the Gatchina Palace, since **_**a lot**_** is going to happen in the following chapter.**

**One thing has been revealed already, however. In an earlier chapter, Mina almost slips and tells Christine of a person who is very close to her. That person is Graf. It's an unexpected twist, certainly, but one, I trust, is credible. I like Graf, honestly, and I find that he's damned lucky to have a girl like Mina.**

**Oh, and lest I forget, it also appears that Christine has **_**finally**_** developed a bit of a backbone. It's about time, honestly. I was actually getting rather tired of her continually putting up with Erik's crap. She really should have stood up to him long before this, but Christine is…well…Christine. She has a tendency to take her time in making a decision, for some, inexplicable reason. O.0;**

**Anyway, I hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter. I have more written, so I should not take as long to update. I plan not to, anyway.**

**I also wish to thank everyone who has read and reviewed. Truly, your thoughts, comments, and encouragement have compelled me to continue where I thought that I would leave this story unfinished. It is to all of you that I plan to finally finish this story. Thank you again! :)**

**Until Chapter Nineteen! **

— **Kittie **


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